


Played All My Cards

by BC_Brynn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Pre-Slash, Team Iron Man, The Revengers - Freeform, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, flangst, mostly comfort, overuse of sarcasm, they hug each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BC_Brynn/pseuds/BC_Brynn
Summary: Loki is exhausted, but he cannot rest before the Aesir are granted asylum on Midgard.Tony’s exhausted, but he can’t stop before Thor’s people get re-homed.An oath helps both find a little comfort.





	Played All My Cards

**Author's Note:**

> I was on a FrostIron mini-binge, and all of sudden had this weirdly intense image in my head. It mutated while I tried to put it into words, and this is the final, unnecessarily magniloquent result.
> 
> Technical stuff: So, for the sake of readability. The POV switches between Tony and Loki. Each of the POVs individually is chronological, but Loki’s entire POV happens before Tony’s entire POV. Does that make sense? Ugh, I hope it does.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this bit of pointless self-indulgence. And excuse the bits where my issues leak through.
> 
> (warnings are in the end note)

Tony’s on the verge of falling asleep. Might have even fallen asleep for a moment – he doesn’t remember sliding down until his cheek hits something and the impact jolts him into consciousness.

He intends to scramble up, but a hand comes to rest on the crown of his head and gently guides him down to lie, with his cheek pressed into the wool of Miss Holly’s pants.

 _Is this something we do now?_ Tony wonders. But, well. _Obvious_.

He sighs. The hand in his hair resumes its gentle motions, pausing once in a while to worry a bit of gel out of a stiff strand. Tony feels tension glacially slowly leaving his body. Not all of it. Just a bit. Just enough that the impending headache does not bloom.

He closes his eyes. The touch is soft and warm. There is no demand implied in it. It’s safe.

He could fall asleep like this.

But. “I’ve got to finish prep for the Committee tomorrow afternoon. And there’s a nine o’clock with… somebody? Pep’ll be mad.” His voice is hoarse, and his mouth is too lazy to fully articulate the words.

Miss Holly understands him anyway. “Do not worry about it, Tony. I shall do it.”

He frowns. “You don’t have to-”

“Tony,” she says, chiding him gently. “It is my job, and I do it gladly. It will give me something to while away the hours.”

“There’s literal thousands of hours of movies-”

“Such passivity grows tedious quickly. Let me have my diversion, and let you have your rest. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Tony concedes, because that was the initial deal between them. That’s the contract they made, and the oath they gave.

To keep safe. To support. To allow the other one the chance to recoup.

x

They came to this realm twice.

Loki does not remember the first time, for it was before his… adoption? _abduction?!_ – although Thor claims to have some hazy memories of the victory parade afterwards. This time the Aesir set their feet on this planet’s soil not as warriors eager to conquer, but as refugees willing to beg.

They huddle together in small groups of families, of friends or of shared heartache, eyes dark and despairing, looking upon the lands surrounding them with distrust, even though Thor has assured them that they were welcome here. _Here_ being the Avengers Compound, under the protection of Thor’s shield-brother, the Man of Iron.

Ha. _Shield-brother_. Thor has ever had the remarkable ability to perceive the reality he prefers to the one that is there. It makes him quick to take offense, quick to forgive, and on the whole a happy individual.

It makes him a deplorable king – as evidenced by the state of his kingdom and of his subjects.

Loki finds it within himself to pity them. He does not consider himself one of them – he _is not_ , never has been, apparently, and in his pain and anger he has destroyed the bridges that could have led him back into their fold. He does not regret it, exactly, but that is a different thing than not acknowledging his loss. His childhood, now that he can look back with a smidgen of objectivity, was not bad.

No, it was not bad at all. The shadows that seemed to him so dark were still so much brighter than other people’s glare of sunlight at high noon. He was sheltered and privileged, and thus, as many sheltered and privileged children encountering cruelty or indifference for the first time, believed himself victimised.

“Stop,” Stark says, pulling Loki out of his contemplation, and succeeding in briefly shutting up Thor’s monologue. “Stop, just…” He heaves a sigh so heavy as if the entire world’s weight was contained within it.

It, Loki realises sharply, might be so.

The mortal leans forward, rests his face upon his upturned palms, and simply breathes.

Thor, oaf that he is, opens his mouth to disregard his _alleged_ shield-brother’s plea and prattle on, as though insistence somehow substituted for persuasiveness. Loki’s spell hits him and mutes his incessant sound before he annoys the man who might effectively hold the fate of Asgard in his worn hands.

“Fine,” Stark mutters. He raises his head again to stare at the crowd of displaced, destitute Aesir. Weariness is etched into every line on his face, all of them so much deeper than they were when Loki saw him last. He takes a deep breath and says: “This is what we’ll do.”

In that moment something within Loki sparks to life. He thinks that it may be hope. Or perhaps respect.

Something along that line.

x

Tony wakes up broken.

 _Feeling_ broken. It’s an important distinction – he knows this from painful personal experience – but he has a right to be dramatic and resentful. He doesn’t want to be old. He doesn’t want to tear up just from getting out of bed.

“It’s half eight, Boss,” Friday tells him while he’s still trying to get his bearings.

It takes almost a minute before this information penetrates his woozy brain. “What the Hell, Fry?”

“Your P.A.’s rescheduled your first meeting, so you’ve got time ‘til ten. The annotations’ve been summarized, and I think Miss Holly found some irregularities.”

“…did she.” It isn’t a very clever response, but he is trying to work through drowsiness _and_ shock here.

“She went through Ross’ loudest allies with a fine-toothed comb. There was some suspicious rhetoric in one of the protest letters and, long story short, Boss, it seems like we’ve got enough to bust one of the Ambassadors as a Hydra goon. I’ve alerted the Accords Committee and transferred the relevant files.”

Tony’s not awake enough for this.

He makes a circuit of the bathroom, which helps a little, and by the time he’s walking down the hall and into the kitchen, he’s almost not stooping anymore. The stiffness is receding.

“Breakfast?”

Tony startles, but it’s just Miss Holly, sitting on a barstool, sipping a fruit smoothie and reading the newspaper. On a holographic screen, since, in contrast to his medieval fashion sense, Loki’s not actually a Luddite.

Tony pulls the offered plate closer to himself, and finds that the pancakes are still warm. He casts a suspicious glance at Miss Holly, who – without lifting her eyes from the text – wriggles her fingers.

 _I hate magic_ , Tony thinks, and tucks in.

The pancakes are delicious.

And, after a while, the pain from his back _and_ from his ribs recedes _completely_ , which is how he knows that he’s been mojo’d.

He could raise a stink, have an argument about consent, pontificate about the principle of the thing… but he doesn’t. This, too, is a part of the deal.

When it’s time to get dressed and prepare for his meeting, Tony leaves Loki at the bar counter with just a: “Thanks, Holly Bough.”

x

Loki has learnt patience at a young age. It has served him well. He bides his time, waits until a week has passed, until the initial introductions are over, and the negotiations have been opened, until Thor has been incited to shout his frustration at Stark and then storm out, leaving in his wake icy precipitation and injured silence.

It is late evening when Loki walks through the halls of the Compound, aware of Friday’s figurative eyes upon him, and politely knocks on the reinforced door of Stark’s office. The action is redundant – Stark’s invisible servant does her work well – and yet courtesy often open doors which remain shut to hammer blows.

“I was waiting for you to turn up,” Stark speaks in lieu of a greeting. He is seated in an armchair under the window, socked feet up on a low table, and a tablet set upon his thighs. “Out of curiosity, do you always clean up Thor’s messes?”

Loki does not bother to suppress the urge to scoff. He briefly meets Stark’s eye – oh, yes, Stark can just imagine what living with Thor (what keeping the oaf alive long enough) has been like. Loki is the one with bribes in one hand, blackmail in the other, and daggers up both sleeves. Thor’s bright successes have always made him happy enough to pass upon examining their dark undersides.

“What’s it going to be today?” Stark stares at him directly, unabashed, too exhausted to play the game. “Will you offer me money? Some precious artifact? Or, oh, we’re both nerds, right – will you offer me arcane knowledge? Or are we going straight for the threats-”

“Why are you working on this alone, Stark?” Loki cuts him off. He has considered threatening Stark – the man has obvious weak points, cares too much about weak, vulnerable people – but in the end it would not benefit Asgard. It would not benefit Loki.

“I’m not alone. You’ve seen the lawyers – I’ve introduced you to the lawyers, against my better judgment, because they insisted. There’s a baker’s dozen of them. And Friday’s got the entire body of precedent worldwide within her reach. We’ve got an international law consultant directly in Bruxelles, and we’re scouting for someone with expertise in international _criminal_ law, just in case-”

“You are alone _here_ ,” Loki cuts him off, tired of the artifice. “The Aesir require a body of lawyers to clarify their position as immigrants to the planet, but you alone are working on _this_ aspect.” Loki has not been idle; he has spent the past week educating himself. He feels he understands the Sokovia Accords well enough to see how the Aesir might fall within the purview of the document.

About a third of the survivors are – or seek to become – warriors. None of them would back down from a fight; too fearful for the state of their honour. In their defence, they have precious little else left.

“Um.” Stark shrugs. He locks the tablet and sets it aside, giving his full attention to Loki (which Loki takes as the compliment it is). “I had a personal assistant, but then I promoted her to C.E.O. and demoted myself to the Head of R’n’D, so I didn’t need a P.A.. I had a Deputy, who dealt with all the on-site stuff, so if I was out of touch for a while, the Company wouldn’t fall apart.”

“And now?” Loki bids him. Like he once remarked to Director Fury, Midgardian society is as intricate as an anthill. He could spend a mortal lifetime studying it, and still find more to learn. As it is, he does not fully understand the Man of Iron’s position in his world.

Anthony Stark is not royalty. He is not nobility either. And yet many of his duties are similar to those of monarchs and courtiers. Loki does not mind learning more. Uncharacteristically, his primary motivation is not to use the acquired information _against_ Stark.

“And now that’s just a courtesy title,” Stark says with a dismissive shrug that does not quite meet the mark of believability. “I invent a few things in the _minutes_ of spare time I scrounge up, but in between the armor maintenance and the _paperwork_ I barely have time to eat and sleep.”

Ah, Loki muses. “Have you considered delegating?”

Stark glares at him for the patronising tone. “Listen here, Reindeer Games. I’ve delegated three full-time jobs’ worth of shit in the past year alone, and still have more left than any one _mortal_ can feasibly do. Thanks to your brother dumping his _entire race_ on me.”

Loki does not argue the matter of fraternity. He is tired of the topic and, since Thor shall not be budged, Loki chooses to expend his efforts on something worthwhile. He nods to himself. “Then, obviously, you would benefit from _divine_ help.”

Stark’s glare turns wary. He searches Loki’s face – in vain, of course – and moves to survey the spread of printed documents colonising his desk.

Then his hand rises to his temple, futilely attempting to stave off a headache-

Loki seizes his chance. “You once offered me a drink. Offer it again, and I will explain what I have in mind.”

x

Tony returns from the Committee meeting ready to hit his head against the wall until he causes himself permanent brain injury. He doesn’t go with this plan, because it’s far more important to punch Thor’s face in for today’s clusterfuck.

They can go right back to the whiteboard with the entire fucking immigration process.

“Friday, you tattletale,” he mutters when he finds Miss Holly barring the doorway to the lounge, holding a large mug of coffee in one hand and a bottle of excellent whisky in the other.

“Come, Mr Stark,” Loki says in that nonchalant ‘Miss Holly’ tone that carries the tacit promise that whatever Tony does, his P.A. will take it in stride. That nothing he might pull will intimidate her.

He spares himself the pointless argument and follows in the figurative footsteps of Loki’s unisex grey-and-black sneakers to the Office. He hates the Office. He prefers his Workshop, but Loki instinctively feels unwelcome there (or so Tony thinks; he might be completely off base on this), or his rooms, but Loki’s been bred with manners, and wouldn’t dream of invading the personal space of someone whom he respects (or pretends to). That would be _uncouth_.

Sometimes it’s uplifting not to be the most eccentric person in a room.

“Did you know there were seventeen Vanir among the refugees?” Tony asks, watching the first glass of whisky be poured.

Miss Holly has _conjured_ the glass, but he’s ignoring this fact.

“Yes, of course,” she says. As she hands the glass over, her eyes darken and resignation creeps into them. “I take it Thor has failed to inform _you_ of this fact-”

“Me _or_ the lawyers,” Tony confirms.

Miss Holly sighs, closing her eyes in despair.

Tony gulps down a finger’s worth of whisky at once. It goes down his esophagus like a small ball of fire.

Miss Holly ripples and becomes Loki; Loki conjures another glass and fills it. He re-fills Tony’s, too, but forgoes a toast.

Tony agrees with the sentiment. What is there to toast to? Beyond the fact that they’re both still alive, but right at this moment Tony would not be averse to some sweet oblivion.

Loki swallows his alcohol with the ease of someone used to harder stuff. His inhales and exhales are suspiciously measured. After a moment of quiet thought he says, with Miss-Holly-esque sort of artificial nonchalance: “There are seventeen full-blooded Vanir and many mix-bloods, although their physiology is close enough to Asgardian as to produce fertile progeny. It might not matter. There is also a number of part-Jotunn, although that heritage is considered _shameful_ , so not even I know who exactly, and how recently in the bloodline.”

Right, nobody would admit to it. Makes sense.

“There is one elf and his three children; the mother was an Ás. There is one full Jotunn. There is an apatite-based creature of an unknown species, and one sentient mollusk. And there is Banner, whatever manner of creature he may be.”

“Yeah, the two weirdos and Bruce stay with Strange and, hopefully, under the radar. Strange’s been pretty successful with confining the Hulk.” Tony hates magic, but he’s decided to trust Strange’s competence after seeing a bit of demonstration of his hocus pocus (even the occasional spar between Thor and Hulk has not been noticed by anyone). “They’ll fall under the Accords, which we’ll deal with _later_.”

 _Later_ sounds good. Tony does not want to see Bruce any time soon.

He wanted to care, before. It seems like a lifetime ago. He wanted so fiercely to be Bruce’s friend that he conned himself into believing he could make it so just by wanting it hard enough. And working for it. He _did_ work for it.

He _tried_.

In the end, it was worth fuck-all. The nerd Bruce enjoyed tossing ideas back-and-forth with the nerd Tony, but any other aspect of Tony made Bruce intensely uncomfortable, and there was – apparently – a lot of Tony that was not a nerd.

So that whole friendship thing went South.

And Tony does not have the _capacity_ to deal with that now. They spoke; Bruce is contrite. Fine. Cool. _Contrite_ is Bruce’s default setting – Tony knows him well enough to know that. And whatever Bruce wants… maybe, someday, after this Asgard issue is solved, Tony might scrounge up the energy to start caring again.

“Your realm is relatively forward-thinking where racial intolerance is considered,” Loki remarks, refilling their glasses.

Tony scoffs. “We’ve had a busy century. Even if some parts of the planet haven’t quite caught up yet. But you know _that_ ’s not the problem. The problem is that _everything_ we negotiated up to this point was for ‘the Aesir’, and we defined ‘the Aesir’ – right at the beginning, with Thor _involved_ in that discussion – as a _race_. Not a _nation_.”

“I doubt Thor managed to focus for longer than a few minutes,” Loki points out dryly. “And even if he did, that is a level of semantics that usually goes over his head. They are ‘his people’ – what more needs he know?” He sneers.

“One bottle might not be enough,” Tony proclaims, draining his glass and extending it for a refill.

He’s had it _up to here_.

He wants out of his head, and he doesn’t give a damn if that end result is achieved by driving a laser beam through his brain or with copious amounts of an intoxicant.

He has the strangest thought to date then. It’s this: _thank fuck Loki’s here_.

“You know, I actually understand perfectly why you tried to prevent his coronation,” Tony muses idly.

The look Loki gives him is a textbook-perfect WTF, which quickly melts into a garden-variety mixture of incredulity and ache. Tony knows that feeling. It’s the ‘why are you driving this vibranium shield through my arc reactor’ feeling, only a lot less literal than it was for Tony.

It’s been unintentional, and fueled by three – four? – extremely generous glasses of amazing, exorbitantly priced booze – but there Tony goes, punching straight through Loki’s (emotional) armor. Only, Tony’s not a complete dick, so he’s not gonna leave Lokes here in the ass-end of nowhere (also known as his goddamn Office) to experience the joys of hypothermia and internal bleeding.

“C’mon,” he urges. “Grab that-” He points out the coffee mug. “-and come with me. We’re gonna get proper wasted, and tomorrow can kiss my ass.” Tony wiggles said ass a bit, earning a huff of silent laugh from good old Reindeer Games.

“Are you inviting me to your rooms, Tony?” Loki asks with just a shade of amusement.

“What?” Tony retorts. “‘s that scandalous, _Miss Holly_? Will the other girls call you a skank?”

“It _is_ scandalous, Tony,” Loki assures him, nonetheless following in Tony’s wake, while Friday – good girl – opens doors for them as they pass. “But I’ll ascribe it to _cultural differences_.”

The elevator door closes, leaving them trapped in the cabin for the duration of three floors. It’s fast, and the sensation of braking makes Tony feel like he’s briefly lifted off his feet. Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped dinner. Or lunch. He thinks there was a sandwich. He has a definite memory of a sandwich. There was a slice of tomato in there.

“I’m not gonna… pressure you,” Tony promises solemnly.

Loki laughs at his back rather than in his face, but that’s just because Tony’s leading the way again. “I appreciate it,” Loki assures him.

When they take seats in Tony’s apartment, side by side on the couch, Tony’s vision has gone a little fuzzy, and there’s some more whisky mysteriously there in his glass. He drinks it. It’s not as hot anymore.

Probably Loki isn’t using his mojo on it to keep it from cooling. Too bad. Tony would kind of like burning up. He’s burning out as is. Burn, burn, burn.

A ring of fire.

“Johnny Cash eat your heart out,” he mutters.

Loki glares at the bottle, which – previously almost empty – refills itself. He’s gone all soft ‘round the edges. Pretty, too, like the harshness has been all smoothed over. “At times like these,” he says, sagely, in the measured tone of one who knows he’s not entirely sober anymore and hopes to compensate, “I miss my Mother. She had a way of making Thor’s blunders appear funny in hindsight, and while that was meagre balm, it often made the difference between me shifting into a venomous snake or a non-venomous one when I planned to startle him.”

Oh. And Tony would just bet Thor never appreciated how often his Mom saved his life.

“I miss my Mom, too,” Tony confesses – and, wow, he must be spectacularly smashed already. “She was just so _good_. There’s not even a right word for it. Just a fucking _good_ person. And my dick of a Father got her fucking murdered.”

“ _Skoll_!” Loki exclaims, holding his glass high, splashing a little of the _replicated_ whisky on the carpet.

Tony clinks their glasses together.

It’s more of a _clack_ than a _clink_ , ‘cause Loki’s a generous pourer, but suddenly everything sucks just a tiny little bit less.

x

“I shall accompany you,” Loki announces, with a glass of fine alcohol in his hand.

Stark’s skin is thick enough that he does not choke, but he struggles to swallow his mouthful of spirits, and treats Loki to a far more worrying glare than any he had worn while they were still enemies. The candour is a gracious offering in itself – in the past, Loki only ever encountered a public mask. He would not presume the man to be unguarded at this moment, either, but the real Stark is far closer to the surface than ever before in Loki’s presence.

“You’re a criminal, Prancer. You won’t be helping your folk by _prancing_ in front of cameras and reminding the _mortals_ that you once invaded this planet.” He takes advantage of the casual comfort of one of the many common areas, and lets himself sink into the softness or a sofa. “Hey, they might actually stop and wonder if this is some new, convoluted invasion scheme.”

“Which is why I shall be going in disguise,” Loki clarifies. _Obviously_ , he does not add, but Stark must hear it, judging by his caustic expression.

“Start as you mean to go on?” the man suggests. “By lying to everybody?”

“Except you,” Loki points out. It is a gamble. Stark is a righteous man – but _how_ righteous? And how self-righteous?

Enough to fight against his former teammates, at the very least, but Loki has as of yet failed to discover how that conflict came to be. Thor is predictably clueless, Banner has been interred on Sakaar during that time, Rhodes does not acknowledge either Loki or Thor (a grudge which is entirely warranted, and more akin to the reception Loki expected than Stark’s resignation to being welcoming), and Loki is unwilling to come near the Mind Stone again.

The Midgardian media, it turns out, cannot be relied upon.

It leaves him in the dark, which he especially dislikes.

It means his gambles carry a lot more risk than he would prefer.

“Look, Poison Ivy. I believe that whatever you’re plotting is for the good of your bro’s tiny little race. Cool of you. But it’s sure as fuck not for the good of _my_ race, and it’s definitely not for the good of _me_. Why would I take you with me _anywhere_?”

Oh, that is a mistake. Stark should not have invited Loki to argue his case. Loki harshly suppresses the urge to grin, even as he tastes victory on his tongue. On his _silver_ tongue. “The most difficult part for me is the unfamiliarity.”

Stark watches him from under drooping eyelids, unmoved and unimpressed. Unaware that he has already walked into the trap, and it is slowly sliding closed around him.

“Your race is so wastefully populous-” Loki grimaces, and is gratified by seeing a shade of a similar expression on Stark’s face. “-that it requires layers of government. Local administrations, municipalities, states, federal governments, international organisations. And yet, in the end, it is merely a more intricate court.”

“And you’re skilled at navigating courts,” Stark extrapolates the point, and indicates with a hand motion that Loki ought to continue.

“The same type of ambition and subterfuge, the same skeletons in closets hidden behind illusions of piousness constructed of gilt and cheap conjurations. An exchange of favours and threats. Each of those men and women you must face – and either convince or intimidate – I have encountered before; they wore different faces and wielded different words, but in the end they are but variation of a theme.”

“You offering to be my _left hand_?”

Loki guesses the meaning of the idiom from the context. It is one of those descriptions that can be both an insult and a compliment. He sees it as the latter. “I have been bred and trained to be that for _Thor_. And I will do that duty best by aiding _you_.”

“I’ve been through this same dance with Romanov. It’s not even March, Brutus.”

Loki fails to extrapolate the meaning of this reference, but being likened to the Black Widow as good as paints him a picture of what Stark expects of him.

At another time – possibly at any other time – in Loki’s life, Stark would have been absolutely correct about his assumptions. Loki’s respect for him solidifies; for a mortal, a being with nary a measly half-century of experience, he is refreshingly astute.

“Are you aware,” he speaks, lowering his voice and meeting Stark’s eye (he used to engender confidence like this, but that trick fails here, much to his delight), “that mages are bound by their oaths?”

“Unbreakable Vow?” Stark suggests mockingly.

Again, a reference. Again, a barely comprehensible one.

“Will you lose your magic if you break it?”

Loki shakes his head. “You misunderstand. There is no penalty, because it is impossible to not comply. It is a _binding_ oath.”

Stark theatrically shudders. “Oh fuck, have you people never heard of geases? That’s bad shit.”

Loki huffs a silent laugh. It has been a long time since he has had such an enjoyable conversation.

The Grandmaster required a very fine balancing act between Loki making himself seem extremely useful yet suffering just the right amount of incompetence to make the self-obsessed peacock feel good about himself. Patronisation annoyed the Grandmaster. He was far from stupid, impervious to perceptions of vulnerability or innocence, inured to all kinds of artifice – and bored of them. Loki had to make it look _genuine_.

The challenge of it had been riveting; the very real prospect of torturous death upon failure not so much.

Last time Loki truly enjoyed a conversation was with his Mother. Before the Allfather first mentioned Thor’s coronation. Back in those days he now labels as halcyon.

“It is why receiving an oath from one such as I is extremely rare,” Loki concedes, musing with bitter humour that _Stark_ was what he subconsciously emulated to appeal to the Grandmaster. “As you note, giving two oaths may lead to circumstances aligning in such a way that those oaths become mutually exclusive.” He has only ever read stories of such occurrences; neither he nor anyone he has ever spoken with personally knew a victim of such circumstance.

Those stories were sufficiently terrifying. Loki learnt on his Mother’s knee to only ever give oaths of strictly limited duration.

“And these things that I’m providing for you are worth that?” Stark snaps, unaccountably skeptical.

Loki frowns (it occurs to him whether he might be hearing an echo of the schism between the Avengers, but this is not the time for prying questions). “Do you imagine anyone has ever granted me and mine a greater boon?”

“I haven’t granted you anything yet,” Stark parries.

Loki looks around himself. Walls surround them on all sides. There are windows, but mortals cannot control their weather, so they do not leave their spaces open. The architecture in itself has caused a culture shock among many of the Aesir, as did the cuisine, but the rare fool who eschews the accommodation has been swiftly drowned out by many grateful voices.

They have come with nothing, and very little to offer.

Stark has given them a princely welcome, and here he is, working himself to the bone, burning through reserves of energy he obviously does not possess anymore, all for the good of strangers – and he _does not expect gratitude_.

Loki enjoys cheating the selfish and the dismissive and the arrogant… and, well, a whole host of people who make the most amusing faces upon being knocked off their imagined pedestals.

But Stark is none of that, and Loki is far more interested in aiding Stark’s endeavour to see those unflattering looks on the faces of his enemies.

x

“Hi,” says Rhodey after he’s judged that the Ás has stared at him long enough.

She doesn’t acknowledge him speaking at all, which is how Tony knows that she’s trolling them. Tony knows who she is, too; she’s the one that keeps emptying the bars on the second, third and fourth residential floor. She looks sober-ish now, and uncomfortable about it.

Tony sympathizes. Not enough to let her off the hook, though.

“What, lady – never seen a cripple before?” Rhodey snaps.

Ouch.

Apparently, Rhodey’s left his zen in his other pants. Okay, message received; honeybear is not feeling up to being patient with people.

“A few who lost limbs,” she says. “Most die. Or take their own lives after the Healers release them with blessings into the rest of their half-lives.”

“Look here-”

“None who lost the _use_ of their limbs and gave up on getting it back.”

There is a moment of silence. Then Rhodey glances up. “I’m going to fucking murder this bitch, Tones.”

Tony nod. “I’ll hold her arms back for you. Old people these days.”

She scowls, and if that wasn’t her default expression, Tony may have thought she was confused by their reaction. Right, cultural differences. Aesir could probably walk off a bit of a spinal break; Loki certainly seemed perfectly fine after the Hulk put him through the penthouse floor, and Tony _saw_ Reindeer Games in the immediate aftermath if that tête-à-tête. His spine must have been in _several_ pieces.

But understanding does not actually negate his anger. “I’m in the process of making Rhodey braces so he can walk again, but guess what, Princess? I _put that project aside_ to take care of you guys. Can you imagine? I shelved _my best friend_ , and he’s good enough to forgive me for it – good enough to put your quality of life above his own. And what do you do? Spend most of the time three sheets to the wind, and then antagonize him.”

He thinks of calling Loki.

It’s an odd reflex, and he will have to keep a close eye on it. He can’t develop an automatic reaction to call Loki whenever a situation arises that he doesn’t want to deal with it.

He can handle one alien girl, even if she is older than Christianity and her liver could be used to pulverize diamonds.

“ _Braces_?” she repeats, bemused. “I can’t believe your species survived this long. I thought you were all like Bruce, but most of you are just walking sugar sculptures.”

Rhodey groans and stares at the ceiling. “Just leave it be, Tones. I can’t – who the hell would consider _Banner_ the template for humans?”

“Someone who didn’t meet any other humans,” Tony concludes. The only less representative member of the species would be… actually, he can’t think of one. Not even himself, not even _Rogers_. Bruce is officially the weirdest weirdo on the planet. “You wanted something, Drunky?”

She pulls a Starkphone out of her belt – there is definitely not enough room for it there; must be some pocket dimension tech, and, damn, Tony wants to get his hands on that… which is too odd for words. Usually when he wants to separate a woman from her clothes he’s interested in the woman, not the clothes.

He hastily looks away from her – they aren’t telepathic, right? that’s only Loki, and even about him Tony’s not entirely sure – might be just a good guesser and a good people-reader. Fortunately, there’s the phone to focus on.

“Having problems with our primitive Midgardian toys?” snipes Rhodey.

She dead-stares at him for long enough to make poor honeybear uncomfortable, and then turns back to Tony. “Your technology is rudimentary, but works well enough. I wish to speak with my friend, but his contact information has not been included in the registry.”

“He doesn’t have a phone, as far as I know,” Tony replies – truthfully. “Tell you what. I’ll have _your_ phone number sent to him and he can call you if he feels like it. Fair?”

She glances at Rhodey again, before she nods. “Would you be willing to give him a message from me?”

“Send me a text file,” Tony tells her, climbing to his feet and moving past her to the coffee machine. Once he hits that button, this conversation will officially be over. “ _My_ contact has been included on all the phones I gave out.”

“You’re a fucking pushover, Tones,” Rhodey complains from behind his back.

Bruce’s latest girlfriend takes both the hint and her leave.

“You’re welcome!” Rhodey calls after her; predictably, there is no response.

Tony shrugs. If he didn’t give her what she wanted without a good reason for why he didn’t give it to her, she would just keep pestering him. Or, worse, go around him and pester someone else. This way he got rid of her, and hopefully won’t have to talk to her ever again (although, honestly, he should know better than to _hope_ ).

He hits the button and sighs when he smells the scent of freshly ground coffee. There is an art to not letting assholes ruin your day (…no, there isn’t – there is just a craft of denying your own pain in the hopes that, like a bully, it goes away if you don’t pay it any attention).

x

“Is he _trying_ to piss off everyone?” Stark whinges into his midnight meal. He uses his chopsticks – utensils that have served to confound and defeat many an Aesir warrior in the past weeks – to idly stab his rice and vegetable dish.

He does not seem to be succeeding in the most basic task of feeding himself.

“That is not the problem.” Loki has come prepared for the confrontation, carrying a sizeable mug of coffee – although, watching Stark’s countenance, he fears it may not be enough. “Thor is quite accustomed to visiting courts and councils of other realms.”  He sets the beverage on top of the counter, far enough from Stark’s elbow that it is not in danger of being accidentally pushed off, but still within reach. “He is, likewise, accustomed to being treated like royalty wherever he goes.”

He withdraws; not far, just enough to showcase his respect for Stark’s personal space.

“He _is_ being treated like royalty-”

“Like _Midgardian_ royalty,” Loki amends.

“And,” Stark concludes, finally raising his head to meet Loki’s eye, “there is a difference.”

“Quite.” Loki settles himself on the third barstool from Stark’s and folds his hands in his lap. “Imagine being, since you could remember, the representative of the absolute monarch of an entire realm. And not just one realm, since your Father in his youth conquered quite a few other realms. Those that escaped subjugation are still aware of the _possibility_ of conquest.”

“Except that’s no longer true,” Stark points out, and there is realisation in the narrowing of his eyes. He is beginning to understand why Thor cannot seem to adjust to his new position.

“Oh-” Loki purposely disingenuously widens his eyes. “-but almost anywhere else Thor could still perpetuate the illusion. Mortals are short-lived. Within a few generations memory of events is lost or distorted. Your entire realm does not remember that it was once a dependency of Asgard.”

“Thor is used to being the big kahuna, and he knows he’s technically not anymore, but he still wants to be treated like one, except that the U.N. Committee isn’t going along with this, and if this happened to him before, Thor would’ve absolutely made a show of force… but now he can’t. Cue cognitive dissonance.”

Loki grimaces at the mire of a statement Stark has managed to produce. It is quite late, and the man is exhausted, but there are still standards below which one should not allow himself to sink. “I believe I described the situation far more concisely.”

“So he desperately wants to punch people, but can’t, and it’s making him a dick,” Stark sums up.

“ _More_ of one,” Loki corrects.

“Granted.” Stark sighs and stabs his late dinner with renewed vengefulness. “Okay, there’s got to be a solution. Maybe if he- doesn’t he have a girlfriend somewhere on Earth?”

He has still, Loki notes, not consumed any of the food.

“Not anymore, apparently. I am unaware of the details, but they are not worth the pain that would be incurred in the process of asking.”

“Any friendly ladies among the refugees?” Stark continues brainstorming. “And what’s his opinion on sex-work-? No, that’s a bad idea, he would turn around and talk about it in front of someone that would publish it and I don’t need the headache of the leader of the race seeking asylum having a sex scandal.”

“Ah, yes.” Loki nods to himself. “The illegalisation of prostitution. Barbaric.”

Stark snorts. “I don’t disagree, but if you quote me on that I’m denying I ever said it. That’s one crusade I don’t have time and energy to fight. Priorities.” He closes his eyes, and appears to almost fall asleep, before he shakes himself, sets down the chopsticks and reaches for the coffee Loki has brought him. He drinks without hesitation. “I don’t want him to punch people, and I can’t get him a girl without resorting to practices that would put me in front of a civil court. I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas?” He looks sideways at Loki, but the question is sincere.

He is asking for advice.

This, Loki can provide.

“Two, for the moment. One requires allowing him to punch _me_ -”

“Veto,” Stark cuts in. It is too terribly endearing.

“-which I would prefer not to do. The other is this: ask your sorcerer associate. He can arrange a spar between Thor and the Beast in a safe place without anyone from the outside discovering that Thor left his confinement.”

“ _Confinement_ is such an ugly word. Can we say _custody_ if we have to talk about it at all?”

Loki ignores the words; he can tell they are empty of meaning, as is so much of Stark’s noise. The voice is one of a magician’s most powerful tools – whether it is used to invoke true magic or merely to redirect attention away from the trick. Stark uses it well. He can incite the spectrum of emotion, although he compromises himself with conscience when it comes to those for whom he cares.

Stark instinctively finds manipulation repugnant within personal relations, even though he has suffered for this squeamishness in in the past, and shall most certainly suffer for it again. A self-righteous man, indeed.

The only one whom Loki has never manipulated was his Mother. And that was only because all his attempts failed.

x

Miss Holly comes in mere minutes after Tony’s finally home. He’s just had time to wash the people-grime off his hands and make coffee, and is on the verge of achieving apotheosis through becoming one with the holy beverage.

Miss Holly sheds her jacket and crosses the kitchen to the appliance counter. She wears a generic white office shirt, which under the bright light becomes somewhat see-through. Tony can see the suggestion of the camisole she has on underneath. There’s lace.

Loki is a master of disguise, indeed.

There’s no show being put on there, but Tony still can’t seem to pull his eyes away.

“Did you get some sleep during the flight?” Miss Holly inquires after a while of silence.

Tony realizes, too late, that he has zoned. Zoned staring at her back. That probably looks bad. Still, there’s no call to harangue him. “Don’t mother-hen. Speaking of mother hens, Fry, have you seen Rhodey?”

“Colonel Jim left you a message, Boss. He’ll be unavailable for the next two or three days.”

“Just missed him, huh?” As if Tony hasn’t felt glum enough before.

“No,” says Miss Holly, turning around and providing Tony with the smoothie she has been making for him. She lets it hover in midair, which is not exactly different from handing it to Tony, but his weird neurotic brain can deal with it just fine.

He picks it up and takes a sip. He frowns. “Raspberries?”

“Rhodes had an engagement planned for a while, but did not want it to interfere with your activities. He has been waiting for a good opportunity-”

“Yeah, I guess me fucking off to Europe for another round of _Words With Friends_ would be it.” As if Rhodey didn’t have enough problems; why does he always, always put Tony before himself?

That is such a stupid life choice, and so unlike Rhodeybear, who is usually a pretty smart guy.

“Take a break tomorrow,” Miss Holly orders him.

Tony’s used to being ordered by Pepper, and the almost-déjà-vu makes him actually consider doing it. Sadly, there is no chance of any such dream coming true. He pouts into his raspberry smoothie. “I can’t. I need to talk to the Moroccans about the Casablanca arc reactor plant and Pepper called me-”

“You are unavailable tomorrow,” Miss Holly informs him.

“No, I’m not. I am perfectly available-”

“I am your P.A., and thus in charge of your schedule.” She plants a hand on her hip, feminine and fierce, not so much a princess (or a queen, like Pep), but a field commander. “And I say you are unavailable. Call your protégés. Invent something impractical yet quaintly entertaining. Take a day off.”

“ _Day off_?” Tony repeats with a guileless stare. “What do these mysterious words mean?”

Miss Holly snatches Tony’s phone out of his pocket faster than Tony can react and walks away.

“Hey! Give that back, Danny Ocean! I need that to negotiate your people’s asylum!”

But Miss Holly ignores him, and Friday, the traitor, not only enables her getaway, but also herds Tony into the elevator and delivers him straight to the Workshop.

And, well, once he’s there he quickly finds something a lot more constructive to do than flapping his gums at politicians.

x

Loki feels torn between annoyance and schadenfreude.

He usually experiences this particular combination of emotion whenever he plays a trick that goes spectacularly right, but the victim manages to sufficiently prove that Loki is the instigator. This time, however, he can honestly say that he is innocent.

It is _all_ Thor’s fault.

“…the Widow always said he made up in cleverness what he lacked in valiance,” Thor grumbles into his sizeable receptacle of weak Midgardian ale. “I never thought he lacked valiance; it simply took other forms. He just… he always so reminded me of you, Loki.”

Loki is gone far enough into his quest for adaptation that he considers Thor’s statement a compliment to both himself _and_ the Man of Iron. On the other hand, it is clearly a denigration of Thor’s mental faculties (not an untruthful one, though – patently).

“Then why, pray tell,” Loki inquires, crossing his legs, “would you continue to antagonise him?” _When you know how I react to being vexed so unceasingly_ , he implies. _I am, in my own right, quite feared. But you have never stopped to consider the reason for this, have you_?

Thor’s eye pleads with Loki to once again help him make his way out of the hole he has dug for himself. “You know how I am-”

“That is a confession, not an excuse,” Loki cuts him off. He is tired of thanklessly cleaning up Thor’s messes. He does not have to, anymore, and the patience sprung form familial fondness is running dry.

Even Brunhilde has come to understand how fragile mortals truly are, and she errs on the side of caution in interactions with them. And Thor – thoughtless, aggressive rube that he is under the gilt of Valaskjálf – would dare attempt to lift Stark off his feet by the throat.

But for Loki’s intervention, he would have succeeded.

And then he tried to fecklessly excuse his actions by claiming that he had done so before and _no one cared_.

“I shall apologise-”

“But for chance your apology would be directed toward Stark’s grave! Then who would fight your battles for you?”

Thor’s imploring eye attempts to appoint Loki as his saviour _yet again_ , and Loki regards him as the buffoon he is rather than the ruling monarch he ought to be (and fails at being so catastrophically).

“No,” Loki says. “Learn to control yourself. And learn to keep your tongue behind your teeth ere the offence you cause paves Asgard’s way to extinction.” He averts his gaze then, focusing on the tablet in his hands.

He has been too slow, coming to shut up Thor – it is not his fault, but he regrets it, as it is the root cause of his current predicament.

Thor sought out Stark to vent his frustration, and spoke quite derogatorily, at a moment where Stark’s tiredness robbed him off the mask of grace he usually presents. The sudden lack of affability to which Thor has become accustomed stunned him, and the words that followed – a biting critique of Thor such as he has not experienced since Tyr gave up on teaching him to fight with a dagger – were a harsh awakening.

If this day can be turned into a teaching moment for Thor then it is well worth it, but Loki despairs of his brother’s thick skull.

Thor still succumbs to his emotions, lets them rule him – and Loki has been guilty of the same lapse in the past, but he has paid for it dearly and now strives to do better. Living in such tight constraints is uncomfortable, but spending time among people who live similarly, uninterested in inflicting harm upon others, is liberating. Loki wishes to spend more time around Stark for this reason, too.

Among the common Aesir he has always been an outcast. A noble, yes, one towards whom they had to act respectfully, but often those who did not know him personally would assume the worst things of him. And facing that disapproval from every direction, day after day after day, became wearying.

“I am sorry,” Thor professes. He says nothing more. He waits.

When Loki looks at him, he is still waiting – like a student expecting his teacher to pass verdict upon an examination.

Loki rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes – that is the traditional phrasing. Now say it to the man whom you have offended, and do _not_ take offence if he does not accept it. That is his right.”

Thor scowls. “Why should he not-”

“Because he is _not_ your friend, Thor, and he has no obligation.” Loki knows, already while speaking those words, that Thor will not accept them – may not even entirely understand them.

Thor scowls. “Tony _is_ my friend.”

After all, has the mighty Thor not decided that the Man of Iron was his shield brother? Has Thor not declared such, repeatedly, in the past? Why would they not be friends, then?

Why should anyone, ever, eschew Thor’s (empty, unthinking) offer of loyalty?

“No, he is not,” Loki repeats. “One would suppose that you know enough of friendship to be aware it is not made with a declaration, nor by allying with another warrior over the course of a single battle. If you wished for friendship, you should not have accepted Stark’s hospitality, eaten his food, drunk his spirits, and then assaulted him within his home, like an honourless cur.” You should not have believed the Widow’s poisoned words. You should have long since learnt to think for yourself in matters other than battle and merry-making.

Loki is so tired of this exchange. It is like speaking with a child, one unwilling or unable to accept that reality does not conform to his wishes. And Loki is aware that he is letting his frustration colour his attitude, that Thor is not on the whole nearly as much of a witless infant… but he wishes he could have a week when Thor’s impetuousness did not make his life needlessly complicated.

x

“Friday alerted me-”

“Tony!” exclaims Harley. His jacket is lightly rain-splattered, because he insisted on driving over from Boston by himself, and parked in front of the Compound like a visitor instead of using the garage.

Tony despairs of the kid.

“ _Tony_ ,” Miss Holly says almost in unison with Harley, exasperated. “I was going to bring him up to the Workshop. You didn’t have to-”

“But-”

“Peter texted me,” Harley speaks over him. “he’s had to wait until classes let out, like the world would collapse if he skipped. Skipped _high school_ classes.” He sneers. “Teachers’ pet.”

Peter kind of is a teachers’ pet, so Tony simply ignores the accusation and hopes that gets him out of being the Devil’s Advocate in this case.

“I ordered pizza for you,” announces Miss Holly, twirling Tony’s phone between her fingers (and of course Friday has everything on it backed up, so that’s just the hardware on which Tony absolutely is not dependent – but, then, it’s the principle of the thing, and so far Friday hasn’t alerted him to anything _truly_ urgent, so he’s happy to play along). “It should be here in half an hour. It shall definitely suffice to sate two adolescents and a man who erroneously believes in his immortality.”

Tony grins at her.

Loki always slips into the Asgardian diction when he’s tired. Which is lucky, because without the reminder Tony would have already forgotten that this man – this extraterrestrial possibly-god – has killed too many people to count, on several planets. That he is two thousand years old, and has very little in the way of morals.

And Tony has the advantage of _knowing_ that.

Anyone else looking at Miss Holly sees a competent woman who is not pretty enough to entice Tony Stark into bed. Which is a faulty assumption on several parts, but Tony’s not about to argue that point to anybody; he likes keeping his limbs intact, and Thor has a mean swing.

“Who are _you_?” Harley demands, glaring across the room.

To prevent bloodshed, Tony steps forward and takes care of the introductions. “This rude kid’s Harley. He’s smarter than he looks, I promise. Harley, meet Miss Holly. My P.A..”

“Just one name?” Harley asks. He doesn’t ease on the suspicion – rather the opposite.

Frankly, Tony’s not sure what to say now. Everyone else has assumed that ‘Holly’ was a surname, probably imagined it spelled ‘Holley’, too, but Tony has right from the start thought of it as a first name, and right now it’s too late to bullshit through this conversation, because Harley already has his number.

Tony loves that kid almost as much as he wants to strangle him.

He spreads his hands, aware of his disingenuousness, but determined to keep playing his part. “Like Beyoncé-”

“You’re employing an Asgardian?” Harley cuts in.

Tony instinctively glances over to Miss Holly – expecting Loki to correct the grammar. He has done a lot of correcting in the past months. It seems like _every_ human gets that one wrong. At least, every English-speaking human.

Tony knows, after repeated correction, that the correct form in singular is Ás. Yes, he gets a lot of mileage out of that homophony.

In this particular case, however, Loki maintains his undercover persona by simply not reacting to the error. Too good at subterfuge, this one.

“Isn’t it illegal?” Harley prods. “She doesn’t have a recognized nationality-”

Aw, the kid’s following all of Tony’s work, not just the engineering stuff (or maybe there has been too little engineering stuff lately and he’s had to resort to following politics out of boredom, but Harley would probably just find another engineer to fanboy over if that was the case).

“-so she doesn’t have a Visa, and Miss Potts will kill you when she finds out.”

“Visa,” Miss Holly mouths, and jots down a note in her planner.

Tony expects the topic to appear in the notes for the next round of talks.

“I volunteer my time and effort,” she explains, and smiles at Harley so innocently that it sends a shiver down Tony’s spine. “Mr Stark is volunteering his, after all.”

Harley scowls at her, then scowls at Tony, and aggressively stuffs his fists into the kangaroo pockets of the zip-up hoodie he’s wearing under the jacket. “He’s a nice guy like that. Lets people walk all over him.” He scowls at Miss Holly again. “Friday knows where you sleep, _Miss Holly_.”

That is so rude. Tony is torn between the patronizing urge to tell Harley to behave, and the inappropriate pride. Kid knows how to alienate people like he’s studied in detail the assholeness extravaganza that was most of Tony’s youth.

“Noted,” replies Miss Holly, royally amused.

Harley takes the dismissal of his threatening prowess with the grace of a scalded cat and, hissing and bristling, makes tracks toward the elevator, leaving Tony behind.

“Isn’t he cute?” Tony inquires awkwardly.

“You are doing that boy a disservice,” says Miss Holly, pursing her mouth. She frowns at him, grave and judgmental.

It’s like a punch to the jaw; Tony blinks compulsively to prevent any embarrassing lachrymose reactions. It’s too late to save Harley now. He’s too embroiled in this, and Tony can no more tell him no than he can keep Peter safe at home. He will not try to control the boys (not that he would have a chance if he tried). He protects them how best he can.

His best is not very good. He knows.

“He receives education in science, but he has the soul of a warrior,” Loki explains, since – apparently – Tony is once again being _dull-witted_. “You are neglecting his training.”

“He’s not-” Tony swallows. “Harley’s not a _warrior_.” Harley’s an _engineer_. A brilliant one. He’s going places.

Loki scoffs at him. “With that fire? He is as much of a warrior as you, and you know exactly what there is in the universe that could stop _you_ from defending those you care for. Give him the tools he shall need, lest you see him die for his lack of skill.”

Tony’s seen Star Trek. He knows where this road leads.

The kid will just assume that anything his role model survived – stupidity, lethal stunts, impossible odds – he, the Mark Two, can weather all the better. And without the lifetime of experience at survival behind him, he will die.

Tony will not be Captain Kirk. He will do better.

Loki hides his planner in a pocket dimension with a wiggle of fingers and rises to meet Tony eye to eye. “Come now, Tony. Surely this is not the worst that could happen?”

That much Tony has to concede. The bar’s not set too high there, though.

“If you shelter the next generation, there will be no one left standing to protect their children once you are old and infirm.”

“There’s a lot of other kids. Why don’t _they_ fight? Why _my_ kids?”

Loki laughs, loud and bright, head thrown back.

Tony flinches away and tries to run, but hands on his shoulders keep him as good as pinned in place.

Loki finishes his fit of mirth and gives Tony a fond, narrow-eyed smile. “Why do you think you regard them as _yours_? What do you imagine it is but the affinity between your souls that brought you together like this? You ask why _your_ children? _Because_ they are yours, Tony Stark. They are proud of you – and they do you proud. So _be_. Be proud. That they may never doubt your regard for them-”

Tony reaches up to place his palms over Loki’s. He squeezes. He understands perfectly where the sudden vehemence comes from.

“-and nurture them to the best of your abilities, so that you may never have to learn to live without them.”

This second part Tony only sympathizes with. Maybe he’ll learn some details someday – and maybe it’s something Loki will always pretend has not happened. Tony doesn’t even know which of the mythical children were real, if any. But he doesn’t doubt there is that kind of loss in Loki’s past.

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t like how Loki softens in relief (as if he expected dismissal). “I hate this – but I needed to hear it, so thanks for telling me.”

The corners of Loki’s mouth quirk up. “Ah, _advise the wise_ , as they say.”

“Do they say that? And I’m not wise-”

“Wise enough to accept my advice. Which already makes you _quite_ exceptional.”

Tony stares into Loki’s green eyes – the only feature he shares with Miss Holly – and wonders how they came to be here. He remembers every step along the way, and yet, looking back, it seems like an impossible journey.

He squeezes Loki’s fingers again, and then steps backwards out of reach.

x

“What’s the news from the home front?” Stark inquires, hunched over some small half-assembled contraption.

He skips right over a greeting, and Loki momentarily flounders in the absence of the traditional reassurance. The explicit invitation and acceptance of that invitation are ingrained so deeply within Asgardian culture that he feels uncomfortable simply walking into Stark’s workshop.

He feels the need to excuse himself – to state that Stark’s assistant Friday allowed him inside – but Friday undoubtedly did that upon Stark’s behest, and he must be well aware.

Loki remembers that he once invaded this man’s home, attempted to suborn his mind (his most prized aspect) and when that failed tried to kill him. And Stark’s reaction was to offer Loki a drink.

Now the man asks for news of his own home, treating Loki like an established house-mate. It is maddening.

There is much grief and fear among the Aesir; their future is uncertain, tempers are high – of course there are conflicts. Thor is taking care of most of it, and Loki manages the rest. He hates what Asgard has been reduced to, and hates that every time he interacts with her people lately, they leave him feeling raw and resentful.

“Thor is suffering the discomfort of honest contrition,” he reports, judging that this may be the information of most value to his host. He casts his mind to last night’s debate (anything to pull it away from the topic of Stark, from the impending realisation of how far past respect Loki has already progressed, and in which perilous direction he is travelling). “He is determined to offer you an apology-”

“Pass,” Stark tosses out, an uncaring dismissal of what Loki knows is an enormous effort on Thor’s part.

Loki sighs. “I do have a personal favour to ask of you-”

“That was quick,” Stark retorts, smirking, bitterly amused.

Loki grimaces. “I would ask that, once Thor musters the fortitude to approach you and speak his apology to you, you hear him out and accept or reject it on its merit.” He feels uncomfortable voicing the request. He feels like his Mother. Frigga asked similar favours of Loki in the past, although rarely has he been impelled to fulfil them, for few who incurred his ire ever bothered to apologise to him. “You have no reason to do this, I am aware. And I know that the offence he caused is great-”

“I honestly expected him to be pissed at me,” Stark cuts in. He is too busy attaching wires to spare Loki more than a quick glance, but there is wariness written in the lines of his body. “He looked ready to haul off and punch me – not sure I’d survive that, to be honest.”

“I would not let him,” Loki assures the man (and is, predictably, not believed). He means it, though.

He thinks, with the clarity of a strangling emotion, that he would stand between Stark and danger. And he would do it gladly. He is terrified by how close he was to ending Stark’s life once upon a time. He clenches the hand that once held the man aloft and hurled him through a window to the deep fall underneath.

“He’s really not expecting _me_ to apologize to _him_?” Stark asks incredulously.

Loki clenches his fist yet harder; he feels his nails cut into the skin of his palm. “No. He tried to feel injured in the wake of your confrontation, but I disabused him of that notion.”

“What did you do – rub his nose in his own shit?” Stark snorts, most likely at the mental image.

Loki suppresses a disgusted shudder. “I presume you meant that figuratively. I have no interest in ever coming into contact with any of Thor’s bodily products.” He considers this. “Well, blood may be tolerated, as long as I am the one drawing it-”

And Stark is laughing.

He is – a uniquely invigorating sight. Loki realises too late that he has been staring – Friday must have noticed, even if Stark does not, as he wipes tears from his eyes.

 _I made you laugh_ , Loki thinks, _just by being myself_. His determination is renewed and reaffirmed within than moment. He and Stark – they deserve this. More importantly yet – they _can_ wrest this from the world. Their small escape. An oubliette of contentment.

They can.

“So, if I listen to Thor’s apology, and react to it _honestly_ , you’ll become my personal secretary for the duration of the asylum talks?” Stark inquires, laughter fading.

“No!” Loki startles himself with his vehemence, but he can hear _honesty_ in his own voice. It is as worrying as it is uplifting. Frigga warned him this would happen – he should have listened better.

“No?” Stark raises his brows, and then reaches for a tiny screw to hold together pieces of his contraption.

“ _No_ ,” Loki repeats, and exhales loudly. “It is not a condition to anything, Stark. I am not proposing an exchange. Just asking. It is hard to teach Thor anything as long as he believes himself beyond reproach. He is an oaf, but not as much of a brute as he seems simply because he has never learnt to see himself as he truly is. He has always been regarded as better than anyone around him – and if everywhere you go people repeat the same lie to you, eventually you begin to believe it.”

Stark nods, like he is intimately familiar with such erroneous self-perception. “I can do that. Probably. I’m a lot more experienced with letting people off the hook – or, you know, acting like everything was my fault in the first place. That usually makes people happy.”

“It does not make them learn,” Loki points out.

Stark shrugs. “Not a teacher material, me – I did a bit off T.A.-ing at MIT, and it was, in the words of the Dean, _an unmitigated disaster_. I think it’s because I was a decade younger than some of my students, but I couldn’t exactly help that.”

“You are enabling people that harm you, Stark,” Loki points out. “Nay, _encouraging_ them. Cease that practice. It is unseemly of a man as clever as you.”

“Shut up,” Stark mutters with appalling lack of cleverness. He sets down his screwdriver and honours Loki with a wan smile. “I’ll do my best, Rudolph. And, if you’re going to lecture me about taking better care of myself, you should know I only tolerate that sort of nagging from people that call me _Tony_.”

This, in itself, is a boon. At this moment, Loki may be _closer_ than Thor to attaining Tony Stark’s friendship.

It is an unanticipated chance he will not let go to waste. “Thank you, Tony. Although, in my role as your _assistant_ , it would be prudent to call you _Mr Stark_.”

x

“Oh my god, are you Mr Stark’s secret wife?! Oh my god! That’s why you can’t tell anybody your whole name! Because your surname is _Stark_!”

Tony is… just glad that in this scenario Peter hasn’t automatically assumed that Tony is Miss Holly’s _father_. Loki perhaps does not look quite young enough in the guise, but Peter’s mind works in mysterious ways, and he has been known to assume _time travel_ before. To explain _muffins_. It was – unique.

“Well,” Miss Holly prevaricates, “the _Miss_ is not quite truthful, I admit.”

Tony facepalms. Next to him, he hears the echo of the slapping sound.

When he checks through the gap between his index finger and his thumb, he finds that Harley has facepalmed at almost exactly the same moment.

‘Connected’ Harley mouths soundlessly, one eye staring up at Tony – through the gap between Harley’s index finger and thumb.

This boy is _ridiculous_.

The other boy is, sadly, _more_ ridiculous. At the moment Peter is _freaking out_ , because – from what Tony understands of the half-coherent rant – he has unintentionally uncovered ‘Mr Stark’s secret marriage’ and outed the ‘Mrs Stark’ and… the world is about to end?

“Your protégés are very different,” Miss Holly comments, wryly amused.

This prompts Harley to let his hand down, fiercely roll his eyes, and speak over Peter: “Her surname is _Skywalker_.” He waits until he’s sure that he has Peter’s attention before he adds: “At least, one of her surnames.”

Before Tony has the time to wonder how the hell Harley figured that one out, Peter proves that his mind works like a 4-D game of _Snakes and Ladders_ by replying: “Oh my god, Star Wars is real? Miss Holly, you’re related to Darth Vader?!”

x

“Please don’t look like Anne Hathaway. Her smile scares me.” Tony theatrically shudders.

Loki takes the opportunity to shift his features into an expression of confusion, as though he was unaware of who this ‘Anne Hathaway’ person is.

Midgardian popular culture is a fungus that sooner or later infects everything and everyone exposed to it. Loki has, initially upon the Aesir’s arrival, had a lot of opportunity to ‘enjoy’ the wonders of cinematography. And even he has to take breaks while absorbing an entire new field of study.

Tony concludes his dramatic rendition of encountering the pop-culture’s most efficient personal assistant, and returns his attention to Loki. “I realize this may be what you’re going for, but-”

“That would be in direct opposition to our contract, Tony,” Loki reminds him. He does not have it in him to feel truly contrite, but a reminder of who this man is, and how much care he gives to the fragile bud that is the Aesir’s acceptance in this realm, is all that Loki needs to release the aggressiveness in his façade. “I may have miscalculated. I was basing my appearance on Miss Potts’ attributes-”

“Pepper’s smile is also very scary,” Tony agrees.

“-and disregarded the underlying idea. We are _tired_.” That is the point. That is what brought them together, what has fostered their understanding. “Softness is far more conductive to rest than sharp edges.” He shifts.

This time the appearance is one that someone like Tony, accustomed to glamour, would certainly overlook in a crowd. Mid-thirty by Midgardian standards, but in that stage of female agelessness that can last for decades even in mortals. He keeps the eyes green, as is his preference; the hair turns an ashen colour somewhere between brown and blond, prematurely greying; the figure tends toward slim rather than voluptuous, and even so remains mostly disguised under a draping grey sweater. Loki pulls the hair up into a twist and fastens it with a twitch of fingers that materialise a clip.

“ _Soft_ , huh?” Tony comments thoughtfully.

Loki smiles. The smile, too, is blunted. No teeth.

He realises the risk of displaying his true prowess with disguise to a potential enemy, but Tony has never underestimated him anyway. In the end it comes down to the fact that Loki _wants_ Tony to see.

“You know,” Tony speaks haltingly, “this might be the first time I actually understand how terrifying you can really be.”

Loki grins. He feels a rush of blood in his face; a hasty illusion disguises it, of course, but he cannot lie to himself and pretend that he does not feel the flush of pleasure at his skills being appreciated by a connoisseur.

Tony shakes his head.

“Well,” Loki says coyly, “that is entirely the opposite effect to what I intended-”

“No!” Tony yelps. “No, that’s not what I meant. I like it. That was just my self-preservation instinct giving up the ghost.”

No, that is not the desirable effect at all.

“It shan’t,” Loki implores. “Grant it a vacation, if you must. A period of rest and recovery. And then…”

“ _Then_?” Tony prompts.

Loki shakes his head. “ _Then_ shall come later. The point is to forget _then_ now. It may not be wise, but-”

“ _What is necessary is never unwise_ ,” Tony cuts in.

He is quoting, Loki can tell from the cadence. Whatever he is quoting sounds like a worthwhile read. “Whence is that?”

Tony grins. “Right. Speaking of rest and relaxation; let me introduce you to the magnificence of Star Trek.”

x

Tony is almost halfway through the latest proposed amendments to the Sokovia Accords, as some light reading in between all the asylum stuff, when Rhodey walks into the room.

“Miss me?” Rhodey inquires idly.

“Were you gone?” Tony replies by rote, because that is the only acceptable reply unless one of them has been kidnapped and tortured for several months. Only in case of extended abduction and trauma it’s permissible to suspend the sarcasm and admit that the absence was noticed and regretted.

Rhodey doesn’t look like he has been tortured. In fact, he looks better than Tony remembers him looking… recently…

“I was going to build you a rocket wheelchair for Christmas,” he says, but what he thinks is _you’re walking_ and _am I hallucinating?_ and _no, I’m sober_ and _does this mean I have to stop saying that I hate magic_?

“Build me a new armor,” Rhodey retorts. “I have a list of people who need ass-kicking that’s longer than my arm.” By now his fake nonchalance has splintered, and there are tears in his eyes.

Tony hasn’t noticed immediately, because his eyesight has gone blurry. He blinks the wetness away and jumps up at his friend, hugging like an octopus with a skin addiction. Rhodey’s _walking_. Rhodey’s got his legs back!

And Tony’s not stupid – he can hug and think at the same time. The absence over the past week, the _magical_ recovery, the Aesir living at the Compound… it all slots together into a picture. Tony can tentatively put Bruce’s rude girlfriend there, too – her culture shock was genuine, and so was the remorse she had been trying not to show when she understood that humans could not heal that kind of damage.

“I’m pretty sure it was Brunhilde’s way of apologizing,” Rhodey explains, confirming Tony’s theory. “She asked the Healers to try and help me – they didn’t know if it would work on a human.” So, that was why Rhodey didn’t say anything. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“What do we owe them?”

“Are you kidding?” Rhodey laughs, and claps Tony on the shoulder. “Someone’s been talking you up to them, Tones. They collectively feel indebted to you – they were ecstatic when they found there was something they could do for you.”

Tony lets his eyes slide over Rhodey’s upright form – from the shorn hair to the polished toes of his shoes and back – and feels an _enormous_ weight lift off his shoulders.

The Aesir think they owe him? It didn’t occur to him to ask anything of them. But if it did… this was _exactly_ what he would have asked for if someone told him he could have _anything_.

He has to get away for a moment, to get his breathing under control and stop feeling so damn cracked open. He goes to grab a bottle of champagne from the fridge. Then he makes another trip for glasses while Rhodey takes care of the opening (he does it the old, boring way, no sabrage, but Tony consoles himself with the fact that this way there will less champagne spilt and more for them to drink).

They drink – to Rhodey’s much improved health.

“I know you’re enjoying the _standing_ ,” Tony remarks, working his way through the second flute of bubbly, “but sit down before you give me a crick in the neck, you giraffe. Tell me _everything_.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised you don’t yet know everything,” Rhodey says, obediently planting his ass on the cushions.

“It’s a conspiracy! How did you get Friday to keep me in the dark?”

“To be fair, Boss,” Friday speaks up, “you were too guilty about feeling abandoned by Colonel Jim to demand any details. _And_ Miss Holly is very persuasive.”

That was… fair.

“She’s got a very talented tongue,” Tony says dryly, proud of himself for skipping the ‘silver’ reference. That would have been too much of a clue. It is bad enough that Harley has somehow – Tony suspects through the use of an as-yet undisclosed telepathic ability – figured out who Miss Holly really is.

Rhodey grins. “She does have that demure good-girl thing going for her. So, does she fit the stereotype and get _really freaky_ in bed?”

Tony would absolutely bet yes. His mind paints him several vivid pictures. He busies himself with draining his glass, then lets out a careful breath and forces himself to focus on the here and now. “Possibly. I’ve got no idea.”

Rhodey’s jaw sinks. “You mean you’re not sleeping with her?”

“I’m not sleeping with her,” Tony confirms.

“I can’t believe you’re not sleeping with your P.A.!” Rhodey exclaims, throwing his arms wide – and splashing his champagne over the couch and the carpet.

“Honestly, I can’t believe it either,” Tony admits, shaking his head at himself. Rhodey doesn’t know that Miss Holly is actually Loki, but Tony finds, to his mild shock, that he considers _being Loki_ a pro rather than a con. Huh. Looks like after half a century, he can still surprise himself. “I am so weird.”

“Tony…” Rhodey faces him solemnly. “…you can put that statement on billboards. Pepper and I will back it one hundred percent.”

Tony’s tempted to stick out his tongue, but limits himself to a fierce scowl.

Sadly, that only makes Rhodey laugh at him.

x

The grounds of the Avengers Compound are larger than the Royal Gardens used to be. They are even larger than Idunn’s Orchard was.

Loki wishes he could rely on Thor to oversee his people, but he has seen what Thor is like in the position of leadership, and _mindful of others’ possessions_ has never been among his traits. Just because Tony Stark owns a greater expanse of greenery than anyone ever privately owned on Asgard (due primarily to their lack of space) and has given the Aesir full access to it, does not mean anyone is welcome to destroy anything.

“Your Highness,” Heimdall mutters when Loki approaches the newly established training area for a cursory inspection.

The address does not carry the customary dryness – as if the Guardian has resigned himself to the fact that Loki is not quite the source of all the evil and suffering, and may be instrumental in securing Asgard’s future.

Loki is mostly just relieved to see that Heimdall has returned to his former duties of watching over their people.

“There is far less wanton destruction than I expected to see,” Loki notes, and inclines his head to Heimdall to suggest that he knows who is to be thanked for this.

“Midgardian alcohol is weaker than what our warriors are used to,” Heimdall notes back.

Loki allows himself a quick grin. He does so appreciate gallows humour, when it is not used as a means of discrediting him.

It is one of the many things he likes about Tony Stark.

“Will you join them?” Heimdall inquires.

Thor is there, in the centre of the training area, shirtless and elated; his practice-sword clashes with a young boy’s, while others eagerly await their turn to try crossing blades with their King. Perhaps it will motivate them to learn. Perhaps Thor even attempts to teach them – he is not quite hopeless at that sort of endeavor. What he lacks in patience he makes up for in honest desire to see his students succeed.

“I think they are sufficiently entertained – and I have my own duties to attend to.” Loki does miss sparring. Someday soon he shall have to make time for exercise and entice some of the most skilled survivors to join him. Perhaps Heimdall would acquiesce?

Aside from Thor himself, is there anyone else left who would not be hopelessly outclassed facing him?

“With Lord Stark?” Heimdall does not betray his opinion in the question.

Loki is not sure if it is an accusation. In any case, Loki’s conscience is clean, and there is no Odin here to look upon him with doubt and sow distrust in Loki among the courtiers.

Just as he is about to take his leave, a group of small children who were playing among the trees uphill from the training area come running and squealing.

They startle an older Aesir into a panic attack, and she react violently. Loki moves reflexively. His magic forms a dome around the infants while he catches the woman’s arms. In a move more suited for the dancing hall he turns her around and keeps her still. Her breaths are loud and far too fast, and Loki feels rather than sees an attack coming from behind-

He knows what his actions must look like-

But there is Heimdall’s sword parrying the blow, and a moment later Thor is yelling for everyone to stand down.

Loki holds the woman, who has returned to present by now. Her panting turns into sobs, and she clutches at Loki’s forearms as though they are her only anchors to reality.

“I am sorry… I am so…” The woman weeps, but – Loki is glad to say – only for the previous losses.

“You are safe,” he assures her. “No one has been harmed.”

The children had a slight scare, and even then they all react with solemnity and understanding, because they all had the truth of trauma explained to them. They are attended to, and Loki retreats with the reassurance that Thor is all the royal presence needed.

Loki knows that such fits happen to many, on occasion. They happen to him, sometimes, too – but his instinct drives to him to run and hide rather than attack.

If he were not present for it today, the children still would not have been harmed. The very same warrior that so eagerly swung his weapon at Loki’s back would have shielded the younglings.

Loki was superfluous; indeed, he may have made things tenser, more dangerous, simply by being there.

“It’s always harder when there are kids involved. But you probably couldn't avoid that kind of situation on a spaceship with a bunch of freaking out veterans,” Tony remarks when Loki enters the Office. He is frowning with concern.

“Neither could you, with your own home turned into hostile environment,” Loki retorts, mentally cursing Friday for being such an efficient watcher and informant.

Tony does not quite hide his flinch. Loki wishes he could unsay the last statement; whatever it was that happened between the Avengers, it must have been crushing. Loki cannot quite imagine anything short of the harshest of betrayals that could have broken Thor’s other clique. The Warriors Three would have been here, dogging Thor’s footsteps, had they survived the reign of Hela.

“And you would know from living in hostile environment,” Tony strikes back with impeccable aim. “Valas-whatsit sounds like an endless U.N. meeting, except with more literal back-stabbing-”

“That is different.” Loki pours himself a cup of coffee from Tony’s pitcher. It is black and bitter – usually he would despise it, but at this moment it is exactly to his taste.

“Different how?”

“In Valaskjálf, _I_ was the hostile element.”

Loki smiles the one smile that narrows his eyes and makes him look like he is actively plotting. He rarely uses this one – he _is_ plotting most of the time, and the point is to direct attention away from it. Tony, however, understands how ‘circles within circles’ works, and is aware that they are both playing that game.

This gesture is akin to a wink in between co-conspirators.

Tony, however, refuses to play along. “Yeah, right. That’s why you’re so chronically exhausted that you find _U.N. meetings_ comparatively relaxing.”

Loki’s fake smile freezes. He takes a deep breath, feels the anger in him swell as his chest expands-

And then Tony is handing him a chocolate bar. The type which Loki prefers.

It is entirely too late to act defensively. Loki is _embroiled_ in this situation. He has chosen this, actively worked for it, took pleasure in disarming some of Tony’s emotional defenses. He has given his oath (in the full knowledge that his Mother would despair of him).

Loki takes the dessert, rips the packaging and takes a bite. “I can be very hostile,” he protests, playing up his petulance.

Tony _laughs_ , since, apparently, self-preservation is simply not his style. “I’ve got no doubt. And I’m down with you helping to tear the Space Asshole a new asshole. It’s a part of why I really want this whole asylum thing to work.”

Loki was not aware of this. He does not understand how he could have missed it – Tony’s awareness of the threat, and his determination to fight it to the point that Loki would be the one ‘helping’, rather than Tony simply offering his aid to the Revengers.

Perhaps he should not be surprised. He must have seen a lot in Tony Stark even before he came to know him personally, even though he could not put it in words then – there is no other explanation for why he has so easily pledged himself.

“Do you believe that we can win?” Loki asks quietly.

Tony contemplates his answer for a moment, during which Loki stares at his lips, anticipating their next movement.

Eventually Tony shrugs. “I just know that every other option is unacceptable.”

x

Thor’s pissed _again_.

Tony’s unsurprised. Lately, every time he sees Thor the man is pissed. Because Thor has honestly imagined that he would come to Earth, flash a smile, wave a sword, and be granted a huge chunk of land and all the rights of an acknowledged monarch, including open diplomacy with other countries at equal footing.

“All committees, everywhere, always drag their feet about everything,” he implores, and wonders why he even tries, when he knows Loki has already repeatedly failed to get through this mental block. “Unless it regards highly medialized subjects.”

Thor is an Avenger – it’s par for course for an Avenger to be an ungrateful dickhead that blames Tony for everything that goes to shit. This is just another episode of the soap opera that is the Initiative.

“Unless it regards the royal family,” Loki translates. He’s being a godsend (literal, sure, but also figurative). His knuckles are lightly pressed to Tony’s spine; the touch conveys support.

Tony is not alone here.

Tony takes a deep breath and tries to explain why the damn diplomats drag their feet. “The idea is that if they prevaricate long enough, the problem might solve itself and spare them the bother.”

Thor stares at him for a while, forehead scrunched up in concentration. Then he says: “I do not understand.”

Loki gets a look on his face like he strongly contemplates drawing Thor a picture, but in the end decides to try words again. “How many attempts to destroy the Compound, or otherwise harm the inhabitants, have you faced in the past three months, Tony?”

Tony isn’t entirely sure where this is going, but relies on Loki to have a better handle on the way Thor thinks, and how to get concepts to penetrate his skull. “Seven serious enough to mention?” He admits. Friday caught all but one in advance, and even that one shattered against the automatic defenses. “A couple cyberattacks. I’m not sure how to count that. There were a few personal attacks-” He has avoided two assassinations by a margin and one narrowly, during his various trips into the wild world of humanity. “-and at least one picketing attempt. A lot of graffiti.” That would have been almost funny, if not for all the racism. “A demonstration in front of the White House.”

So much hate-mail. So much. From all over the world. People have paid _airmail_ so they could tell S.I.’s mail-sorting interns that they hated Tony Stark and thought he would cause the end of the civilization. Tony will _never_ , ever, get that.

“Someone tried to harm my people?” Thor demands, jumping to his feet and waving a sword in the absence of his hammer.

Loki rolls his eyes and then spreads his hands, like _what can you do?_.

Tony sighs. “Pipe down, Point Break. You didn’t notice while it was happening, so don’t go spreading panic weeks after the fact, okay?”

“You should have told me immediately, Tony.” Expression and voice both radiate less-than-gentle reproach, and Tony’s fucking done.

Alright? He’s done. This coming from the dick that once lifted him off the floor by the throat because an alien A.I. suborned Tony’s A.I. concept and made off with some drones. An alien A.I. brought to Earth by Thor’s brother, no less. And then Thor fucked off and didn’t actually help with much of the following shit.

He gave Vision the jolt that started him up, but aside from that he rode the ‘mortals are pathetic and unimportant’ wave far enough that Tony washed his hands off him.

“Why?” Tony inquires.

Thor catches that there’s something wrong, but he doesn’t care to decipher what. “So I could fight-”

“Weren’t the Aesir defended well enough?” Loki interjects slyly. His knuckles move slightly – up and down. A reminder.

Tony feels a little of his tension drain away. Oh, good. He has an ally in this argument. Always good to have, allies. Until, you know, you need them and they can’t be bothered to turn up. Or turn up just to stab you in the back.

“They were,” Thor admits grudgingly. “I meant no offence, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t acknowledge that. These days he’s a little picky about what he considers an apology, and whether he accepts it.

Sadly, he doesn’t think Loki’s method of trying to teach Thor to not be a dick is working.

Loki pulls Tony’s attention back to the topic before Thor tries to jump on his nerves again. “So you wouldn't have achieved anything-”

“I would have sought justice-”

“Newsflash, Thor,” Tony cuts in. He’s out of patience, and out of niceness. “You’re about to become a citizen of Earth. That means you’re bound by Earth law. Yes, even _you_. No one here cares that you once ruled a space rock lightyears away from here.”

Thor has the absolute temerity to look at Tony like Tony has wounded him. Was that remark cruel? Oops. Tony would care, but Thor’s the one that started it. He’s the one that thinks violence doubles as a show of affection (and even Howard didn’t think _that_ ). Tony doesn’t have to take this.

“I will protect my people!” Thor proclaims grandiosely.

Behind the cover of his hair, Loki rolls his eyes again.

“And you’ll notice there’s a provision for that under the Accords,” Tony informs him. There’s sweet self-satisfaction in the words. Like a tiny _fuck you_ to Rogers and everything Rogers stands for. “Until you’ve signed that, everything you do would be judged the same way as if it were a random Joe Shmoe off the street doing it – if that Joe Shmoe was an illegal alien.”

 _Your titles mean nothing here_ , Tony tries to convey. _You won’t get any special considerations anymore. You won’t have SHIELD or me protecting you from the consequences of your actions. Welcome, for the first time, to the real Earthgard_.

“Your realm puts great stock in equality, Tony,” Thor concludes, with all the gravitas of a foreign monarch. He tilts his chin down, very _noble martyr chic_ , like a humble-bragging douche. “I shall strive to obey. But my people always come first.”

Sure. Yes. Of course. No one has ever doubted that for a second. Especially not Tony.

Tony knows where Earth ranks in Thor’s priorities, and he isn’t going to rely on another Potemkin village of a team.

x

Tony is a demanding master, but at the same time easy to please.

It is a curious realisation, to which Loki came after several days of shadowing him in preparation for taking over some of his tasks. It is entertaining to watch him interact with strangers; he adapts his public persona on the range from the most offensive sort of self-aggrandising, empty-headed buffoon to a self-effacing and insecure abuse-victim.

None of those personas are real, and yet all are real _enough_ that Loki detects a strain of sincerity.

This is what Loki used to love about travelling to other realms. Out of reach of Odin’s meddling, he could become anything and anybody.

After but a month since Loki became Tony’s personal assistant, they work together seamlessly. They even experience moments of enjoying the work, and that is something neither of them would have thought possible.

The day General Thaddeus Ross is arrested, Tony _hugs_ Loki (in his guise as Miss Holly) and laughs like a loon. They are in the commissary by the conference hall, and Loki has been too focused on selecting his meal to see the physical assault coming.

Once it is happening, he is too focused on the sensation to be aware of anything else. Tony’s hair is in his nose – it smells of shampoo – and Tony’s arms around his body. Loki’s skin gorges on the contact as though it is starved. Loki’s arms lock around Tony’s ribcage; he does not care about Ross beyond moving him out of their way, but Tony’s joy is contagious.

“Mr Stark-”

Loki flinches, pulled out of his moment of contentment by the invasion of a foreign diplomat.

“-in the light of today’s events, I have a very important topic to discuss with you.”

Tony and Loki pull apart, and in consummate players’ unison pretend that they were not just engaged in an inappropriate public display of affection, which will undoubtedly be publicised as a scandalous affair by tomorrow. Most likely with the intention to draw attention away from an American Senator being arrested for war crimes.

The man that has spoken is tall, well-built and dark-skinned. It takes Loki a moment to recognise him – his initial impulse to resent this person is compounded by the knowledge of his duplicity and hypocrisy.

“Your Majesty,” Tony acknowledges. “My C.E.O. is in frequent contact with your sister. I believe that anything you may have to discuss regarding Stark Industries is better communicated through that channel.”

T’Challa understands the implied rejection, but does not let it deter him. “It is not a business proposal-”

“Well, whatever you have to say regarding U.N. policies should be discussed with the committee-”

“Mr Stark,” the Wakandan King snaps, “I truly need to speak with you in private-”

Loki sees the moment when Tony’s patience runs out, and is ready with a spell that will keep the rest of the confrontation from being witnessed by the audience that has been gathering ever since T’Challa approached them (in fact, it has begun gathering even before that, when Tony Stark embraced his P.A.).

“-about a topic that is of great personal importance to you-”

“You mean like that you’re housing a group of terrorists?” Tony strikes.

T’Challa must have imagined that his actions were unknown, for his eyes widen and he takes a reflexive half-step backwards.

Loki smiles, wide and bloodthirsty, which must look very odd on Miss Holly’s face.

“That you shat all over you late Father’s work because you felt that your grief puts you above the law?” Tony continues, vindictive to the point of cruelty.

Loki is impressed.

T’Challa expands with outrage.

“Your Majesty…” Poison drips off Tony’s sickly-sweet tone. “It’s so nice of you to wish to spread complicity in your crimes, but I’m just not interested in being bosom buddies with anyone who breaks the laws he has himself lobbied for. That shows to me this person believes in _do as I say, not as I do_ , and I have been there and done that. Did Rogers tell you how he covered up my parents’ murder? What an odd friendship; it feels to me that a loss of a parent via murder is something you would sympathize with… but apparently not?”

“Mr Stark,” Loki says, cautioning his employer to not let hurt feelings compromise his goals.

He is acutely aware of the vulnerability revealed here, and decides that in the future he will stand between Tony and the Avengers, and their associates, since whatever happened is clearly still unresolved. For all his strength, Tony is not invulnerable.

This, Loki sees, is at the heart of Tony’s wariness of Thor, and his avoidance of Banner.

“Right.” Tony takes a moment to compose himself. “The answer is no, T'Challa. The two of us have no private business to discuss. Have a nice day.” He turns away.

Loki takes the first opportunity to act as a shield, raising his chin higher and meeting the Wakandan’s eye. He cancels the wards, and lets everyone watch – in case T’Challa reacts violently, it will benefit them to have witnesses.

The King looks down on whom he perceives as an insignificant woman, but he does not attempt to bypass Loki.

“I’ve mysteriously lost my appetite,” Tony comments.

Loki rolls his eyes – there is a _lovely_ Midgardian simile about a dead horse that applies here – but he agrees that a change of venue may be prudent.

They exit the building, and when Tony tries to distract himself with his phone, Loki pulls him to a nearby eatery that offers small bread rolls, which Loki considers sufficient lunch meal on account of them being heated.

They sit on uncomfortable chairs at a small circular table, but the fare is tasty and the music quiet enough and not offensive to Loki’s ears. He eats one half of his ‘panini’, notes that Tony has yet to touch his food, and snatches his phone from him.

He glances at the screen just long enough to confirm that it is nothing truly important – Tony has been perusing a news site of dubious credibility – locks the device, and puts it into his purse.

Tony tries to protest, but Loki pushes his plate closer to illustrate his point.

“Mother hen,” Tony grumbles, but he is picking up his sandwich and biting into it a moment later, so the recalcitrance is all for show.

“While your mastery of verbal evisceration is a source of pride,” Loki muses, “I find I prefer the joy you felt at arranging Ross’ ignominious expulsion from the negotiations.” The oath does not require an exchange of confidences of him – he does it because he cares and, for once, caring does not feel like a weakness he can ill afford.

Tony pauses in chewing. He stares at Loki quizzically.

“Is it so shocking that someone might enjoy seeing you happy?”

Tony shrugs, which, of course, is a confirmation. “That feeling… it’s a damn miracle. And someone inevitably comes by to piss over it as soon as possible.”

Loki grimaces at the mental image. “Then we must protect it.”

It sounds easy, and he lets himself contemplate a life in which he would take on guarding someone’s happiness as his duty, to the exclusion of all other duties. It is a fairy tale, and Loki has grown out of those eons ago, but the vision is pleasant.

“Such a rare commodity,” Tony says. There is an acerbic note in his voice. He sees through the fallacy immediately. “What is it worth, though?”

“How far would I go?” Loki paraphrases, raising his eyebrows. “Would I beg? Lie? Cheat and steal?” He absolutely would.

“Maybe stop short of murder?” Tony suggests.

“Kill but to protect life?”

Tony sets down his half-eaten sandwich and covers his eyes with his hands, shoulders hunching over the small table. “I’m not seeing any difference, in the end. Is it the understanding of our own motives that makes us amoral, whereas if we did those same things blindly, unaware of why we are doing them, we would be _the good guys_?”

Is that how the Avengers broke? Over hypocritical reproach and unrighteous self-righteousness?

How childish.

“You ask me?” Loki says drolly. For all his physiological and cultural superiority, he is in the exact same position with Thor. Nothing he ever does is good enough, and for every well-intentioned deed he reaps distrust and accusations.

He has reasons for everything he does, and a great majority of those are benign. Still, it is difficult to not believe himself lacking or _bad_ , when all he hears is vituperation.

“Two thousand years of observation?” Tony suggests.

“Then… yes.” Loki has never found a better reason for why Thor can start a war and claim his hands to be clean, whereas Loki ends the same war and sees himself for the murderer he is. “Yes, it is your own intelligence and self-reflection that prevents you from ever attaining such moral high-ground.”

There is a long silence between them, surrounded by the bustle at the counter, customers ordering and paying and chattering between themselves, with the ever-present music in the background.

Eventually Tony nods and attempts a semblance of a smile. “Thanks.”

Loki shrugs.  “You asked, Tony.”

“It’s the self-reflection thing,” Tony explains, picking up his sandwich again. “And I mean it, Holly Bough. Thanks.”

x

Tony’s dying.

Not literally, except in the existential sense. But he feels like he’s dying. And he _doesn’t feel_ like listening to all the ‘I told you so’s’.

Yes, they told him so. Damn near everyone told him he would exhaust himself into illness, but he doesn’t have time for this bullshit. He needs to get his obligatory three-to-five hours of sleep and then get to work.

Which sounds great in theory, but in practice he’s already thrown up everything there was in his stomach, and has given up on trying to think through the fog of mounting fever.

Everything sucks.

And tomorrow it’s going to suck even worse.

And, of course, _this_ is the moment when Loki chooses to turn up. Not as Miss Holly, with the chance of being professionally concerned and sympathetic, but in his original incarnation.

Tony closes his eyes again. Fuck this. Fuck everything. He just wants to be unconscious so he wouldn’t have to keep feeling like shit.

“Was the journey to your bed too arduous to make tonight?” Loki asks wryly.

Right. Tony came in, spent a rousing half hour worshipping at the altar of the porcelain god, and collapsed on the couch. And refused to move afterwards. Mostly because he can’t.

He listens to Loki moving around the lounge, tapping at a tablet – presumably to conspire with Friday behind Tony’s back – and then coming to sit on the floor by the couch.

“Healing is not among my talents,” he says, reaching out to touch Tony’s forehead as if Friday hasn’t snitched on him and shared her scans, and Loki needed to check Tony’s temperature manually. “I do have some rudimentary skills, but nothing even approaching the Healers who tended to your friend Rhodes. Not to even mention those at the Healing Halls of Valaskjálf. Sadly, the most competent Healers have not survived.”

He sounds crushed and angry enough that under different circumstances, Tony would try to help him get out of his head.

Right now even talking is torturous, but he’s never been good at either impulse control or self-preservation. “Tell me you kept your archives on the Cloud.”

Loki huffs an almost soundless laugh. “I did steal as much knowledge from the Archives as I could – but much of it was irreversibly lost.”

Tony grimaces. It hurts. “Don’t say _irreversibly_. It sounds like a challenge, and I don’t have the time-”

“You are ill, Tony.” Loki touches his ribs.

It’s weird.

Tony’s not up to guessing what’s going on. “But you just said you’re pants at healing-”

“How lucky for you then, that you do not require healing.”

“I don’t?” Usually, he’d just repeat the tried and tested formula of ‘I’m fine’, but he’s not. He’s really, really not. “‘cause, full disclosure, I feel like shit.”

“That is due to the virus,” Loki states the obvious. “Fortunately, I am quite accomplished at using magic to kill.”

Tony’s eyes fly open; the lamplight viciously stabs at his brain.

Loki, the alien magician that once tried to conquer – or possibly raze – Earth has his palms pressed to Tony’s chest and stomach. His eyes glow. He has just stated his intention to use a Killing Curse on something inside Tony’s body, and Tony’s very much not okay with this-

“Don’t panic,” Loki tells him. His lips stretch in something that is neither a smile nor a smirk.

Tony scowls. “Lost your towel?” He’s not feeling any worse than he has been a minute ago, so he’s willing to extend his personal assistant the benefit of the doubt – after the shock abates. He’s not entirely sure if he’s feeling anything apart from the headache at the moment, thanks to the adrenaline surge.

“Towel?” Loki repeats, and then adds an ‘ah’ of understanding. It’s not that he’s read Douglas Adams, it’s just that he knows Tony – that’s a trip and half in itself – and can follow a lot of his thought processes. He recognizes a reference, and he extrapolates from the conversation what the reference was implying, by-passing the need for familiarity with pop culture.

Because he is brilliant, this works for him about eighty percent of the time. It’s actually impressive, not the least because Tony overuses references with the intention to confuse his audience.

“Better?” Loki asks a while later. Notably, he has yet to retract his hands from where they are lightly resting on top of Tony’s Hindenburg t-shirt.

It’s a Zeppelin reference. Shut up. It’s rock music and science and an explosion – what’s not cool about it (aside from the casualties)?

Tony, belatedly, realizes that there’s something unexpected and not pleasant going on inside his body.

“Bathroom,” he snaps, and shoots off the couch so fast that Loki almost falls over dodging Tony’s flailing limbs.

Tony comes back half an hour later. Among other things, he has taken a short shower. He feels human-ish; close enough to _fine_ that a Tylenol and some coffee might restore him to acceptable functionality.

He’s still not happy about Loki Avada Kedavra-ing the _virus inside Tony’s body_. That is a level of freaky he has not expected, and which will need to be processed. In the future. At some point when he has the mental bandwidth available.

He returns to the couch and flops down.

“Your labours shall be concluded soon,” Loki assures him, an instance before he sets a takeout container onto the table in front of him. A pair of chopsticks – the black and red and silver ones Tony prefers lately – follow.

Loki himself has a fork. He’s perfectly competent with chopsticks. He just finds a fork more convenient.

Tony respects the logic of his utensil choice.

He does not, however, understand the logic behind Loki’s last statement. “Right, pull the other one, Harry Potter.”

“You do not expect this round of negotiations to be successful?” Loki sits down with his takeout – plated, as he prefers it – and glances up at Tony. “From what I have seen it seems as though consensus is nigh.”

“You can never really be sure about that. But that’s not what I meant.” A quick reconnaissance reveals that Tony’s dinner is rice and some sort of pea sauce – is that a mushroom? are those nuts? It’s Indian, but nothing he can name. An hour ago he would have thrown up just from looking at it. At the moment it smells amazing, and he’s going to eat it all. “Look, I sort of threw myself all into this asylum thing because I’ve got issues. Newsflash, sugar cane – your people aren’t the end-all and be-all. If nothing else, I’m taking a day for mental health – ha! – after I get your folk settled, but then it’s right back to the drawing board for the next space threat. Thanks for the early warning. Appreciate it; I just have to make it actionable. Piece of cake, right?”

He scowls at the chopstick situation, but Loki’s not being a dick, so he’s provided a spoon, too. That’s better.

Tony sets the chopsticks aside. He doesn’t feel like explaining the differences between Chinese, Thai and Indian cuisine to someone who still rolls his eyes at the idea that there are separate nations and different cultures living on the same planet, even though that is the whole reason why his job exists.

“I have faith in you,” Loki assures him. “And I am not uninvested-”

“You’ve got a spaceship-”

“This realm will become our home soon. We will defend it.”

Right up to the point when there’s nothing left to defend, and then they’ll fuck off back into space, Tony’s sure. They did it with their last realm. Not that he disapproves of Thor’s decision there; saving the people had priority.

The thing is that even though Thor claims to like humans, he has a duty to the Aesir, and he will drop ‘Midgard’ like a hot coal if it gets in the way of protecting what’s left of his kingdom. Like a king should, but.

Tony reminds himself not to rely on Thor any more than he has before. Thor is an _Avenger_ , after all, and _Avengers_ are all about great marketing lines for a shitty product.

“It always makes me nervous when you speak in plural,” he quips, and stuffs his mouth with the mushrooms-peas-nuts stuff. It’s _delicious_.

The same goes for Loki as for Thor, and this reminder stings a bit. Oh, whatever. He and Loki have made their arrangement temporary right from the start, no misunderstandings, no betrayed faith. It’s been… good. It’s been good, even though it’s coming to an end, and Tony prefers to appreciate how good it’s been to bemoaning the inevitable conclusion.

x

The door to the apartment he shares with Thor slides open without Loki using his access card.

He knows signs of favour from the servants when he sees them; just as he recognises the small, petty shows of disdain, which most would not discern. Thor has never noticed that his furniture and amenities were selected for maximum aesthetics and minimum comfort or practicality.

He certainly did not find small boxes of confectionery on his bedside.

Loki may be arrogant, but at least he has long since ceased confusing arrogance for superiority. That is sheer stupidity. Simply because by right of birth you are allowed to treat them callously, with disregard or rudeness – or, in worst cases, with casual proprietoriness – did not make it wise to anger those who were maintaining every aspect of your life (from food and drinks to clothing, linens, baths, grooming, living spaces, and in the cases of the lazier warriors even weapons).

For instance; when Thor and his… companions… achieved the state of _falling down drunk_ , they lost all semblance of civility. They also lost what vestiges of taste they might have possessed, and on one particular occasion Loki personally witnessed a group of servants refilling the dwindling beer barrel with piss. None of the drinkers noticed.

At another time Loki might have reported that misconduct. However, earlier on the same day he had once again been subjected to the ‘magic is trickery and thus cheating’ speech, so he simply enjoyed himself with his carefully guarded bottle of mead.

“These talks are stretching needlessly,” Thor complains from the sofa he has appropriated for himself, dispelling the amusing memory.

It takes him all of a second to dispel Loki’s pleasant mood (and thus prove Tony right about his assertion that someone will piss on any sliver of happiness they wrest for themselves). Loki is very much not inclined to humour his liege with a seventeenth circular argument about the topic.

“What is there that requires _months_ of negotiation?” Thor grumbles. “Are we not allies of Midgard?”

Once-conquerors, Loki thinks, and now a non-issue, since most Midgardians know nothing of Asgard. Those few that even heard of it only recognise it in context of mythology, or the place Thor claims to hail from.

Thinking of the past days upon days spent in various meetings and committees and consultations, of the endless frustration and repetitive struggles against greed and stupidity, Loki sneers. “Have you never attended the Thing, oh King of Asgard? Even the most long-winded mortals’ speeches would be dwarfed by the soliloquies of your Uncle Ve, once he succumbed to outrage. Debates that dragged for years-”

“Which is why I avoided the Council Chamber as much as I could,” Thor cuts him off with a shudder. “I see now that it was unwise, but a young warrior’s hot blood despised sitting still and molding away amongst all those old men.”

 _Then the young warrior should have left the reigning in the hands of those who knew what they were doing_ , Loki thinks bitterly. He says nothing. He does not wish to argue with Thor. It is exhausting, and there is far too little achieved to be worth the effort.

He has accomplished more in a day of sitting at a desk and reading electronic documents than Thor has in a month of strutting around, swinging a sword. The Earth media have noted the absence of Mjolnir and, so bidden, Thor did not hesitate to share the saga of the destruction of Asgard with the reporters.

Some mortals are sympathetic to his plight, but most see only that Asgard clearly brought its destruction upon itself. The entire nation – the entire realm – has crumbled under the assault of a single enemy, and a home-grown one at that.

“Loki,” Thor implores, sprawled upon the disconcertingly soft piece of leisure furniture, ignoring the flickering images on the television screen and poking at a dish of noodles with a pair of chopsticks (familiar with the utensils after many lengthy sojourns to Midgard), “you are helping Tony with this endeavour, aren’t you?”

“Must you ask?” Loki retorts, raising a disdainful eyebrow.

Must he, though? He claims to be Loki’s brother and to love him with one breath; with another he casts doubt upon Loki’s intentions, disavows his actions and disregards his achievements.

This all merely serves to make Loki work harder at carving out his own space here. Avengers Compound may lack the splendor of the Valaskjálf, but once one becomes accustomed to the drabness, he finds that there is actually nothing missing. Society and solitude – knowledge and physical training – technology and facilities, and the abundance of nature on the surrounding grounds. The Aesir have received accommodations on par with Asgard in functionality, if not aesthetics.

Many hail Tony as the Prince he is by character, if not by birth.

Loki is not a person inclined to happiness, but he has found contentedness here, and after tasting true suffering, anger, pain and – indeed – exhaustion, he is capable of valuing this. Moreover, he is willing to fight for it.

It is a very different battlefield than what he is used to, and therein lies the challenge of it.

Thor narrows his eye at him. “What are you plotting now, brother? Can’t you give it a rest until our people are safely established in this realm _at least_?”

Thor, too, is weary. And in pain – his eye-socket has not healed well. Tony offered the services of the best of Midgardian Healers, but there is no such magic here that could restore full sight to him.

“ _Our_ people,” Loki repeats after him, spitting the words bitterly. He has worked relentlessly, for centuries, for the good of Asgard. Even his ‘crimes’, such as they were, were committed with the interests of Asgard at the forefront of his mind.

Jealous he might have been, but never so much that he would compromise _his_ people. He had been a fair and competent ruler (and those that would judge him for a few harmless acts of self-appreciation had never been in the position of having to withstand the temptations of power, or relished the sour grimaces of people attempting to force smiles at something they despised). Loki was a good King.

As opposed to Thor.

‘Our people’, thrown into Loki’s face like a reproach.

If Loki were hesitating, this baseless accusation would have made up his mind for him. Once the time comes – once Tony accomplishes this minor miracle and helps the Aesir create a new home in this realm – Loki will not accompany them. Let Thor oversee the building and the organising and the birthing pain of a new age of Asgard.

By then Loki will have built something different – something smaller, less glorious – but something for _himself_.

x

Tony’s spent two decades (or so it felt; the calendar claimed it was just a little over five months) wrangling all the involved bodies and committees and agencies and whatnot into signing the damn document and granting the Aesir asylum on Earth. Without confining them to a single country – which was a stipulation Tony‘s been fighting against ever since he realized that the damn aliens didn’t have a  _concept_ of borders.

They have all been issued passports (taking their fingerprints has been a hassle and half – Loki, as usual, proved to be a godsend).

They don’t have a concept of IDs either, but at least carrying access cards for the Compound has somewhat prepared them for this.

It’s exodus time, and Tony’s feelings about it can be best summed up as _ambivalent_.

It’s a huge weight off his shoulders; so much stress is draining away with these people leaving that it’s difficult to encompass. He feels anxious about the change as such. What is he going to do now? He’ll have to figure out how to go back to the regularly scheduled programming of a genius billionaire superhero who _isn’t_ an ambassador and a host of an alien nation. He doesn’t remember what that was like.

Not that he doubts he will adapt; he always adapts. This will make his life easier. Strange, but apparently that also happens. Sometimes. If he works for it hard enough.

Next quest: smoking the Space Asshole.

“Thank you, sir Stark,” chorus the kids as they trot past on the way to the planes.

Girls – and women – curtsey.

Tony’s uncomfortable with the old-timey deference, but he smiles and nods, and sometimes waves, because that seems to work best. They look happy to be semi-acknowledged and just walk on. He understands – sort of, on a theoretical level – that they regard him as something of a savior. He did house and clothe and feed them for almost half a year (which to them is probably like one afternoon), and helped with securing their new home.

And Thor, it appears, has been trying to make up for being a dick by singing Tony’s praises. In iambic pentameter.

Tony has housed and clothed and fed people before. They didn’t appreciate it. He’s dealt with adoring public before. It invariably turned out to be fickle. He doesn’t trust this, and he’s glad to watch them leave – in equal parts for himself, to be rid of the responsibility, and for them, because life in barracks sucks, even if they’re luxury barracks.

Kids need space, or something. He doesn’t pretend to understand (he knows Peter needs space for swinging, but he’s sort of a unique case?).

He feels a presence at his shoulder, and a moment later a passing Ás inclines his head, quietly saying: “Lady Holly.”

Tony checks with a quick sideways look.

She’s there. And she’s a _she_. As if Loki expects that he’ll get a better reception from his people as this random Midgardian female that was somewhat involved in helping Tony than he would as the Jotun that had worked for them and fought for them (and probably pranked them a lot but still).

A family passes by – the sole elf, Tony’s almost sure – and the littlest girl shyly buries her face in her Dad’s jacket, carried on his hip. The boy, just above knee height (Tony’s never learned to guesstimate kids’ ages) waves, face red like a tomato.

Tony automatically waves back. He can tell Loki’s smirking at him.

“Greetings, Miss Holly,” says a girl – this one comes up to Tony’s elbow or so.

“Hello, Broenwen,” Loki replies genially.

It’s kind of sad to see that Loki’s expectations of being more accepted in disguise are right. Thor’s always been full of stories of Loki shifting into something or someone – most of them ended with the dramatic reveal, usually to someone’s misfortune. He took his pound of flesh, sure. Tony suspects that it was rarely unprovoked, but also that Loki had a pretty skewed idea of proportionality.

 _I’ll miss you_ , Tony thinks, shocking himself into very fortunate muteness. He doesn’t need that kind of embarrassment.

He watches the line of Aesir walk up the stairs into the belly of the jet, while Thor helps the baggage handlers load the luggage up onto the conveyor belt. These people have things, now. There’s not much – everything they own can fit into suitcases and sports bags – but they came here months ago with nothing at all.

There’s satisfaction in generosity. Tony likes to believe that this is how his Mom felt, working for her Foundation, spreading charity and goodwill in a world that kept destroying itself with the Stark weapons. Trying to carve out something genuinely good out of all those blood-stained riches.

He likes to believe they’re connected by that understanding, even through the barrier of time and death.

“I wonder,” Loki says, barely loud enough for Tony to hear him. The tone is winsome, but the statement is clearly leading.

“Wonder what?” Tony acquiesces to ask.

Loki casts him a quick smile, before he schools his features back into the pensive expression. “Now that the matter of my nationality has been settled, I wonder whether the Stark Industries would aid me in procuring a worker Visa.”

“You want to stay?” Tony blurts, shocked.

“Being the God of Mischief does not make me incapable of appreciating comfort and safety, Tony.”

“…that’s not an answer,” Tony points out.

Loki pulls his hand out of his pocket and reaches for Tony’s. “I wish to give you another oath. If you are interested in it, of course – if you are not, I shall embark with Thor’s flock and find other ways to entertain myself-”

“And there’s finally the threat,” Tony mutters, amused despite his better judgment. He has not pulled his hand away yet, either. In the recent months he has fallen asleep in Loki’s lap, gotten drunk with him and spilled some of his guts. He has passed off his paperwork to him. Hand-holding is nothing compared to that.

Loki chuckles soundlessly, just a few short, rapid exhalations and a quiver of shoulders. “But I am quite sure that you are interested.”

“And _I_ am sure that it’s not your life’s ambition to become a secretary-”

“A _personal assistant_ ,” Loki corrects with fake haughtiness.

In the distance the baggage guys manage to get rid of Thor by sending him to corral his loyal subjects. Heimdall glares in Tony’s direction, although the disapproval is probably directed at Loki.

Tony clasps the hand in his. Laces their fingers together. “So, out of _interest_ , what would this new oath sound like?”

“I would swear to stay by your side and work to the best of your interests – as long as they do not directly compromise the interests of the Aesir – until such a time as we declare a cessation of our understanding.”

 _Understanding_ , huh? Tony muses, but outwardly he laughs hard enough to lean into Loki and use him for support. “Really? _Really_? That’s what you’re going with? It’s holey-er than the Pope!”

Loki grins. “Well… I _am_ a god…”

x

Coda

x

A set of numbers appears on the wall, projected by Friday. A minute and seventeen seconds.

Not enough time.

Tony sighs and leans his forehead into the cradle of Miss Holly’s shoulder and neck. When she squirms in his arms he kisses her collarbone and starts buttoning up her shirt.

“What-”

“Incoming,” he explains. He has a deal with Friday about what are the acceptable methods of alerting him to an impending invasion, and this is far preferable to an alarm. He doesn’t need anybody panicking and attempting to evacuate the whole Stark Tower.

Again.

Miss Holly scowls at him; he scowls right back. If it were anyone else on the way, Tony would have had Friday lock the door and let them wait. He still can’t entirely believe that he is interrupting what was looking to be some spectacular semi-public sex.

He’s not had public sex in years. In years and years. Pepper put a ban on it, and Tony hasn’t slept with anyone else since 2009 until he and Loki grew close (although they by necessity keep their association behind closed doors).

And now there’s Miss Holly, and Tony finds that he can still be inspired to indiscretion. He hasn’t lost that under the weight of responsibility. He’s a little more restrained, but the fire in Loki’s eyes when he suggests some more-or-less harmless mischief is something he treasures.

The joy at being naughty is something he wants to participate on.

Miss Holly’s shirt is done up, but she’s still sitting on top of Tony’s desk, with Tony standing between her knees, when the door opens and Pepper struts in.

She stops after two steps and stares. Her business face scrunches up, and after a flash of pain she goes straight for anger. “Goddamn it, Tony – I thought you were past this!”

There is a phrase from their past that comes to his mind: ‘this is not the worst thing you caught me doing.’

But. He isn’t doing anything wrong. And Pepper didn’t catch him. He’s just here, being PG-level (at the moment) affectionate with his… friend with benefits? Possibly significant other? A colleague and companion?

He doesn’t care about the label. He cares that Loki followed him to New York once the Compound began to echo with emptiness, without it even being a question. He cares that they’re good for each other and _to_ each other – and if Pepper tries to piss on that, he’s not going to take it lying down.

“The déjà vu is incredible-”

“Oh, come on, we’re both fully dressed and there are no bullet holes, this shouldn’t even be pinging a radar-”

“But Jim said… Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Rhodey is such a snitch. But also a life-saver, because in those first few months after the break-up he valiantly worked as a go-between and possibly saved Pepper’s and Tony’s relationship from disintegrating entirely within the toxic field of hurt and awkwardness. So he’s forgiven.

“Pepper,” Tony says, wishing he could put his hand on her elbow or something, but they still have a quite strict policy of safe distance and unsolicited physical contact. “Pep. You know I love you. And I respect you. You’re the best C.E.O. a billionaire industrialist could want.” All hundred percent true, and he can see Pepper softening under the barrage of candor. “But you dumped me on no uncertain terms.”

“That’s not what I…” She presses her fingers to her temple, closes her eyes and sighs. “I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t mean to accuse you.”

This, Tony decides, is an acceptable apology. So he accepts it. And smiles. “Yeah, well. This can’t come as a surprise. Holly Bough and I made the news repeatedly-”

“Those were _lies_ ,” Pepper cuts in, glancing at them. Then she snorts. “But now I see why you never sued.”

“Streisand effect, Pepper-pot,” Tony points out. Back then he had no idea that he and Loki would become this, but he still wasn’t going to engage any of the rumor-mongers. “But, you didn’t come here today with the intention of catching my P.A. and me about three miles away from _flagrante delicto_. So, what’s up?”

“I’ve had a long chat with Shuri,” Pepper reports. She puts an external drive onto the small part of Tony’s desk not occupied by tech or P.A.. “She’s a delight.”

Tony wishes he had a chance to meet the Wakandan Princess, or at least talk to her. By all accounts she’s brilliant, her tech’s revolutionary, and she has an awesome sense of humour. Too bad there’s only twenty-four hours in a day, and he’s only one person. “Right. Definitely the preferable sibling.”

That’s an easy judgment to make. Shuri would have to be _terrible_ to be worse than T’Challa.

“She said her brother wanted her to cease cooperating with S.I.,” Pepper reports, but she looks satisfied, so obviously that didn’t happen, “and she informed him that he was being a moron, and that he had already endangered the future standing of Wakanda enough with his actions.” She cocks her hip, crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises her eyebrows. “Anything I should know?”

“The King of Wakanda is harbouring international criminals,” announces Miss Holly from her perch on the desk.

Tony groans. He wasn’t going to tell Pepper that.

Which, he suspects, is exactly why Loki told her.

“…is he.” Pepper’s voice has gone arctic. “And that information has not been made public yet _why_ , Mr Stark?”

“Because we don’t have a viable strategy against Space Asshole yet, and we might need them?” Tony counter-questions.

Pepper wars against herself for a while, and then folds. Her shoulders sink. “I’ll need an action plan for that A.S.A.P., Tony. And you _will_ go through the Accords first. You _will_ suck up _all_ the U.N. funds there are before you start throwing your own money at the problem, do you understand me?”

“Pep-”

“Yes, he will,” says Miss Holly. “It is enough that he volunteers his time and effort; everyone will be endangered by the invasion, so everyone should contribute.” She meets Pepper’s eye, and the two P.A.s (one turned C.E.O., one a god in disguise) reach an understanding.

Tony is _very_ uncomfortable with this.

Pepper smiles. “Oh, good. Tony, add providing frequent reality checks to your P.A.’s schedule. She sounds like she can do you a world of good.” She pauses and then adds: “If you’re sure she’s not another honey pot-”

Tony laughs so hard that he has to sit down. The swivel chair is right there; it huffs under his weight and tries to turn, but Miss Holly’s stockinged foot blocks one of the armrests, and brings it to a halt. Tony looks up into the shape-shifted face he has come to know almost as well as Loki’s Asgardian appearance (he’s got enough hints to know that that’s not Loki’s _true_ face, per se, but he honestly doesn’t care). “Honey pot!”

“I could be,” Miss Holly protests.

And, yes, obviously. Loki could have been after this from the start. He could be chronically incapable of genuineness, creating schemes within schemes within schemes… but Tony’s quite sure that he knows the real person behind the façade. Loki’s a hell of a trickster.

But he’s also real.

Real enough.

Tony leans forward and rests his forehead against Loki’s knee.

Loki’s fingers card through his hair.

It’s a start of another uphill battle for survival, and they’ll have to work with people they’d like to see dunked in a sewer, but for once Tony’s not feeling like he’s drowning. “A little bit of happiness, huh?”

Loki smiles at him and quotes: “ _What is necessary is never unwise_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: genderfluidity, bad language, PTSD, referenced mental problems, referenced alcoholism, hinted past child abuse/neglect, vaguely referenced child death, mentioned violence, displacement, unreliable narrators
> 
> …um, that looks like few warnings for a story of mine, but it’s honestly very light.
> 
>  
> 
> ‘Advise the wise’ – they do, indeed, say that. Although not in English, as far as I know. But Loki has Allspeak, and I know how natural it seems to directly translate idioms into other languages even when you’re just code-switching like a run-of-the-mill mortal – I am also very familiar with the uncomprehending stares of the audience.
> 
> It came out Thor-critical, which wasn’t the original intention. It’s just a side-effect of my two unreliable narrators: Tony’s done with the Avengers’ bullshit, of which Thor is a part. And Loki’s so done with Thor’s bullshit. So, so done.
> 
> Neither Tony not Loki harbour some intense dislike for Thor – they’re just tired, and he unwittingly keeps making their lives harder. So, please, don’t crucify me for Thor-hate. Thor is a good boy (with the occasional attack of the dumb).


End file.
